The year 1867 was about the limit of his working life.  During the last five years he hardly answered a letter.  Before this time it had become increasingly hard for him to do so, and he always postponed and thought he should feel more able the next day, until his daughter Ellen was compelled to assume the correspondence.  He did, however, write some letters in 1876, as, for instance, the answer to the invitation of the Virginia students.

Emerson left off going regularly to the “Saturday Club” probably in 1875.  He used to depend on meeting Mr. Cabot there, but after Mr. Cabot began to come regularly to work on “Letters and Social Aims,” Emerson, who relied on his friendly assistance, ceased attending the meetings.  The trouble he had in finding the word he wanted was a reason for his staying away from all gatherings where he was called upon to take a part in conversation, though he the more willingly went to lectures and readings and to church.  His hearing was very slightly impaired, and his sight remained pretty good, though he sometimes said letters doubled, and that “M’s” and “N’s” troubled him to read.  He recognized the members of his own family and his old friends; but, as I infer from this statement, he found a difficulty in remembering the faces of new acquaintances, as is common with old persons.

He continued the habit of reading,—­read through all his printed works with much interest and surprise, went through all his manuscripts, and endeavored, unsuccessfully, to index them.  In these Dr. Emerson found written “Examined 1877 or 1878,” but he found no later date.

In the last year or two he read anything which he picked up on his table, but he read the same things over, and whispered the words like a child.  He liked to look over the “Advertiser,” and was interested in the “Nation.”  He enjoyed pictures in books and showed them with delight to guests.

All this with slight changes and omissions is from the letter of Dr. Emerson in answer to my questions.  The twilight of a long, bright day of life may be saddening, but when the shadow falls so gently and gradually, with so little that is painful and so much that is soothing and comforting, we do not shrink from following the imprisoned spirit to the very verge of its earthly existence.

But darker hours were in the order of nature very near at hand.  From these he was saved by his not untimely release from the imprisonment of the worn-out bodily frame.

In April, 1882, Emerson took a severe cold, and became so hoarse that he could hardly speak.  When his son, Dr. Edward Emerson, called to see him, he found him on the sofa, feverish, with more difficulty of expression than usual, dull, but not uncomfortable.  As he lay on his couch he pointed out various objects, among others a portrait of Carlyle “the good man,—­my friend.”  His son told him that he had seen Carlyle, which seemed to please him much.  On the following day the unequivocal