“Two o’clock.—­Mr. Giddings informs me that he shows signs of life.  He has just now attempted to speak, but cannot articulate a word.  Under medical advice he has submitted to leeching.

“Half past two.—­Mrs. Adams and his niece and nephew are with him, and Mr. A. is no worse.  The reports, however, are quite contradictory, and many, despair of his recovery.

“Three o’clock.—­None but the physicians and the family are present, and the reports again become more and more doubtful.  The physicians say that Mr. Adams may not live more than an hour, or he may live two or three days.

“His right side is wholly paralyzed, and the left not under control, there being continually involuntary motions of the muscles.  Everything which medical aid can do, has been done for his relief.  Briefly, just now, by close attention, he seemed anxious to ‘thank the officers of the House.’  Then, again, he was heard to say—­’This is the last of earth!  I am content!’ These were the last words which fell from the lips of, ’the old man eloquent,’ as his spirit plumed its pinions to soar to other worlds.”

Mr. Adams lay in the Speaker’s room, in a state of apparent unconsciousness, through the 22d and 23d,—­Congress, in the meantime, assembling in respectful silence, and immediately adjourning from day to day.  The struggles of contending parties ceased—­the strife for interest, place, power, was hushed to repose.  Silence reigned through the halls of the capitol, save the cautious tread and whispered inquiry of anxious questioners.  The soul of a sage, a patriot, a Christian, is preparing to depart from the world!—­no sound is heard to ruffle its sweet serenity!—­a calmness and peace, fitting the momentous occasion, prevail around!

The elements of life and death continued their uncertain balance, until seven o’clock, on the evening of the 23d, when the spirit of John Quincy Adams bade adieu to earth forever, and winged its flight to God.

  “Give forth thy chime, thou solemn bell,
  Thou grave, unfold thy marble cell;
   O earth! receive upon thy breast,
   The weary traveller to his rest.

  “O God! extend thy arms of love,
   A spirit seeketh thee above! 
   Ye heav’nly palaces unclose,
   Receive the weary to repose.”

The tidings of Mr. Adams’ death flew on electrical wings to every portion of the Union.  A statesman, a philanthropist, a father of the Republic, had fallen.  A nation heard, and were dissolved in tears!

In the history of American statesmen, none lived a life so long in the public service—­none had trusts so numerous confided to their care—­none died a death so glorious.  Beneath the dome of the nation’s capitol; in the midst of the field of his highest usefulness, where he had won fadeless laurels of renown; equipped with the armor in which he had fought so many battles for truth and freedom,