The disease which was killing him was acute oedematous laryngitis,[1] which is as simple as it is rare and fatal,[2] and he was being slowly strangled to death by the closing of the throat.  He bore the suffering, which must have been intense, with his usual calm self-control, but as the afternoon wore on the keen distress and the difficulty of breathing made him restless.  From time to time Mr. Lear tried to raise him and make his position easier.  The General said, “I fear I fatigue you too much;” and again, on being assured to the contrary, “Well, it is a debt we must pay to each other, and I hope when you want aid of this kind you will find it.”  He was courteous and thoughtful of others to the last, and told his servant, who had been standing all day in attendance upon him, to sit down.  To Dr. Craik he said:  “I die hard, but I am not afraid to go.  I believed from my first attack that I should not survive it.  My breath cannot last long.”  When a little later the other physicians came in and assisted him to sit up, he said:  “I feel I am going.  I thank you for your attentions, but I pray you will take no more trouble about me.  Let me go off quietly.  I cannot last long.”  He lay there for some hours longer, restless and suffering, but utterly uncomplaining, taking such remedies as the physicians ordered in silence.  About ten o’clock he spoke again to Lear, although it required a most desperate effort to do so.  “I am just going,” he said.  “Have me decently buried, and do not let my body be put into the vault in less than three days after I am dead.”  Lear bowed, and Washington said, “Do you understand me?” Lear answered, “Yes.” “’Tis well,” he said, and with these last words again fell silent.  A little later he felt his own pulse, and, as he was counting the strokes, Lear saw his countenance change.  His hand dropped back from the wrist he had been holding, and all was over.  The end had come.  Washington was dead.  He died as he had lived, simply and bravely, without parade and without affectation.  The last duties were done, the last words said, the last trials borne with the quiet fitness, the gracious dignity, that even the gathering mists of the supreme hour could neither dim nor tarnish.  He had faced life with a calm, high, victorious spirit.  So did he face death and the unknown when Fate knocked at the door.

[Footnote 1:  It was called at the time a quinsy.]

[Footnote 2:  See Memoir on The Last Sickness of Washington, by James Jackson, M.D.  In response to an inquiry as to the modern treatment of this disease, the late Dr. F.H.  Hooper of Boston, well known as an authority on diseases of the throat, wrote me:  “Washington’s physicians are not to be criticised for their treatment, for they acted according to their best light and knowledge.  To treat such a case in such a manner in the year 1889 would be little short of criminal.  At the present time the physicians would use the laryngoscope and look and see what the trouble was.