train winds through
the village-road and up the wooded hill-side until it stops at a little
opening among the tall trees. There the bed is made in which he whose
dreams had peopled our common life with shapes and thoughts of beauty
and wonder is to take his rest. This is the end of the first chapter we
have been reading, and of that other first chapter in the life of an
Immortal, whose folded pages will be opened, we trust, in the light of a
brighter day.

It was my fortune to be among the last of the friends who looked upon
Hawthorne's living face. Late in the afternoon of the day before he left
Boston on his last journey I called upon him at the hotel where he was
staying. He had gone out but a moment before. Looking along the street,
I saw a figure at some distance in advance which could only be his,--but
how changed from his former port and figure! There was no mistaking the
long iron-gray locks, the carriage of the head, and the general look of
the natural outlines and movement; but he seemed to have shrunken in all
his dimensions, and faltered along with an uncertain, feeble step, as if
every movement were an effort. I joined him, and we walked together half
an hour, during which time I learned so much of his state of mind and
body as could be got at without worrying him with suggestive
questions,--my object being to form an opinion of his condition, as I
had been requested to do, and to give him some hints that might be
useful to him on his journey.

His aspect, medically considered, was very unfavorable. There were
persistent local symptoms, referred especially to the stomach,--"boring
pain," distension, difficult digestion, with great wasting of flesh and
strength. He was very gentle, very willing to answer questions, very
docile to such counsel as I offered him, but evidently had no hope of
recovering his health. He spoke as if his work were done, and he should
write no more.

With all his obvious depression, there was no failing noticeable in his
conversational powers. There was the same backwardness and hesitancy
which in his best days it was hard for him to overcome, so that talking
with him was almost like love-making, and his shy, beautiful soul had to
be wooed from its bashful pudency like an unschooled maiden. The calm
despondency with which he spoke about himself confirmed the unfavorable
opinion suggested by his look and history.

The journey on which Mr. Hawthorne was setting out, when I saw him