There, in, that room above the parlor, on the bright Sabbath morning of May the sixth, at twenty-five minutes past ten, he breathed his last.  He was slightly indisposed the Monday previous; but until the evening of that day he did not appear to be seriously ill.  He complained of no particular pain, but of a general restlessness and malaise.  On Friday, two days before his death, seated in his chair as the easiest position he could obtain, he engaged in a game of chess with a friend; but his tremulous hand refused to make the moves, which were made by another at his suggestion, and were recorded by one of his daughters.  He was too weak, however, to finish the game, which was postponed with his consent to another time.  It was now plain that his disease, which was pneumonia, could not be conquered, and that his end was nigh.  On Saturday morning his faculties became clouded.  He was heard to call a long lost son by the name known only to the family; then the name of his dear departed wife was uttered; and presently the name of the master of the steamer that plies between Norfolk and the Eastern Shore where that son and that wife were buried; showing that his own burial by their side was passing in dim review before his failing faculties.  In the course of Saturday his mind was wholly gone.  On Sunday morning, a quarter after ten, he drew a long breath, and it was thought that all was over; but he rallied, and another long inspiration followed.  And then all was still.  His spirit had passed away.  An hour later I entered the chamber, and took a seat by the side of the corpse.  His hands were folded on his chest, which loomed larger than in life; and his extended form looked like one of those marble effigies which adorn the tombs of his Norman sires.  His features appeared full and natural as if a deep sleep had come upon him.  The massy forehead, the firm aquiline nose, the wide reliant upper lip which looked as I have so often seen it when about to put forth a serious utterance, and the broad chin—­all were there as in life; and even his silver hair, curled freshly by daughter’s fingers, clustered about his neck and brow.  The “ocean eye” alone was closed.  Death had put his seal upon it.  As I gazed upon that majestic form reft of its mighty spirit and soon to be laid away forever, and as I pressed the parting salutation upon those lips not yet cold in death, on which admiring Senates have so often hung, and from which I had so often heard the words of wisdom and affection, I thought of those who were bathing his dust with their tears—­of the kindest and tenderest of fathers, and of the bravest and best of friends; and I wept as I felt that a large and various chapter of my own humble life, written all over with the memories of this illustrious man,—­a chapter running from early youth to grey hairs—­would thenceforth be closed evermore.  It was only when the flood was past, that I thought of our common country.