His wife, undoubtedly his equal in every respect, to whom much of his prosperity, usefulness, and good repute, as well as that of his family was due, after a married life of fifty-three years and three months, died in Dec., 1836. She had long been feeble. Her children watched around her bedside on the last night in silence till one of her sons, laying his hand upon her heart, and finding it still, said "we have no longer a mother." I remember the hush of the next morning, throughout the house, when we young children awoke. It was lonely and cold in grandma's room, and only a white sheet covered a silent form. At eighty-three he was alone, and he deeply felt, as was natural, that loneliness. Yet he had affectionate children, and with his youngest son, who had four daughters, to him kind and pleasant granddaughters, he made his home for the remainder of his life. With the oldest of these he made in 1837, as already noticed, his last visit to Connecticut, going as far as New Haven and the city of New York. On this journey he went in his own carriage. He visited us, once at least in Castleton, at the house where the Log-Book was so long concealed. I remember his figure there, as that of a "short and stocky man," who seemed to me very old. He died while on a visit to Middlebury, where two of his children had been settled for more than twenty years, at the house of his youngest daughter and youngest child, Betsey, then the widow of Dea. Martin Foot. She and her six daughters did everything possible for his comfort. A swelling made its appearance upon his shoulder, and the disease advanced steadily to a fatal termination. His appointed time had come. From his death-bed he sent to his children a final letter of affectionate greeting and counsel. The feeble hand, whose lines had been so fair and even for nearly three-quarters of a century, wanders unsteadily across the pages, expressive of a mind perhaps already wandering with disease. And so the fingers that had traced the neat lines of the Log-Book, on board the _Oliver Cromwell_, in 1778, "forgot" sixty years afterwards "their cunning," and wrote no more. He was buried beside his wife, in the cemetery at West Rutland, near the church where he had worshipped nearly sixty years. On the death of his wife, he had ordered two monumental stones to be prepared just alike, except the inscriptions; one of which was to be for her, and the other for himself. They may be seen from the road, by one passing, of bluish stone standing not very far from the fence, and about half way from the northern to the southern side of the lot. On these stones was inscribed at his direction, where they may now be read, the words, contained in Rev. 14: 13, divided between the two stones; on the one: "I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me, write Blessed are the dead, which die in the Lord from henceforth;" and on the other: "Yea saith the Spirit that they may rest from their labors and their works do follow them:"