e briskly exercised himself,--and this
custom he thought of great importance in hardening the body against
cold. Then, after washing, dressing, and shaving, breakfast must come
at once,--delay was not conducive to peace in the household; and
immediately after breakfast he sat down to his desk for one, two, or
three hours, as the case might be. He was singularly tolerant of little
interruptions, although he did not like to have any one in his room
while he was writing, and when his morning's task was done, especially
if he were satisfied with it, he came out in excellent spirits, and
ready for outdoor exercise. He walked a great deal in New York, but
never without an errand. It was very seldom, either in town or country,
that he walked for the walk's sake; but at St. David's he spent an hour
or two every day at hard work either in the garden or at the wood-pile,
and made a daily visit in all weathers to the village and the
post-office.

After his early dinner he invariably took a nap; and after tea, went
again to his desk for an hour, and then came to the parlor for the
evening's [342] amusement, whether reading, or music, or talk, or a game
of whist, of which he was very fond; and in all these occupations his
animation was so unfailing, his interest so cordial, that family and
guests gladly followed his leadership.

But in this spring of 1877 the rheumatic attack of which he speaks was
the beginning of a state of languor which in July became low bilious
fever. He was not very ill; kept his bed only one day, and by the
autumn recovered sufficiently to walk out; but from that time he was an
invalid, and he never again left his home.

To Rev. Henry W. Bellows, D.D.

ST. DAVID'S, May 4, 1877. DEAR FRIEND, AND FRIENDS,--I see that I cannot
do it. You ought to be glad, not that I cannot, and indeed that would
not be strictly true, but that I do not judge it best. I really think
that I myself should be afraid of a man, that is, of a man-visitor, in
his eighty-fourth year. But what decides me now is that my rheumatism
still holds on to me, and does not seem inclined to let me go, or rather
to let go of me. This weather, chilly and penetrating to the bones and
marrow, is a clencher. I do not walk, but only creep about the house,
and can't easily dress myself yet; all which shows where I ought to be.
What a curious thing it is! I had n't a bit of rheumatism all winter
till March came, and never had any before. Was n't it the