n since he gave up the command
of the Mare Island Navy Yard in 1858. The welcome here accorded him was
as hearty as that extended in foreign countries, and mingled with the
admiration due to the conquering admiral was the recollection of warm
mutual affection and esteem engendered by four years of close
intercourse. Returning from San Francisco to the East, Farragut was
seized at Chicago with a violent illness, in which the heart was
affected. For some days his life was despaired of; and although by
careful nursing he recovered so as to resume his journey, it is doubtful
whether he ever regained the ground then lost. Several severe attacks
followed this one; and although he rallied with extraordinary rapidity,
thanks to a vigorous constitution, it was apparent that his health was
failing. A few months later, in the middle of winter, he consented to
take charge of the naval ceremonies in honor of the remains of Mr.
George Peabody, whose body had been brought to the United States in the
British ship-of-war Monarch, in recognition of his benevolence to the
poor of London. It was his last official duty, and the exposure
attendant upon funeral ceremonies in that bleak season was much to be
deprecated in a man of his years and failing vigor.

The following summer the Navy Department placed at his disposal the
dispatch steamer Tallapoosa, which took him and his family to
Portsmouth, New Hampshire; where he became the guest of the late
Rear-Admiral Pennock, then commandant of the Navy Yard at that place and
a connection by marriage of Mrs. Farragut. It was his last sea voyage,
and he appeared to have a presentiment that it was so; for as the ship
drew near the yard he arose from his sick bed at the sound of the salute
being fired in his honor, dressed himself in full uniform, and went on
deck. Looking up with a sad smile at his flag flying from the mast-head,
he said: "It would be well if I died _now_, in harness." Shortly after
his arrival, an old sailor who had charge of the sloop-of-war Dale, then
lying dismantled at the wharf, met there the admiral, who had wandered
on board. He looked about the ship and, as he left her to go ashore,
said: "This is the last time I shall ever tread the deck of a
man-of-war." This prediction proved true. He passed quietly away at the
commandant's house, on the 14th of August, 1870, aged sixty-nine years;
surrounded by his family and loving friends, including many of his old
companions in arms