cupied his leisure during
the spring and summer of 1847.[366] "If I were to attempt to tell you
how happy we make ourselves at our retired home," he wrote Governor
Fairfield of Maine, "I fear you would scarcely be able to credit me. I
even yet realise, every day and every hour, the relief from public
cares, and if any thought about temporal affairs could make me more
uneasy than another, it would be the serious one that I was again to
take upon myself, in any capacity, that ever pressing load."[367] This
was written on the 16th of August, 1847, and on the morning of the
27th his useful life came to an end. The day before he had spoken of
apoplexy in connection with the death of a friend, as if he, too, had
a premonition of this dread disease. When the end came, the sudden
rush of blood to the head left no doubt of its presence.

[Footnote 366: "Nothing can be imagined more admirable than the conduct
of that great man under these trying circumstances. He returned at
once to his beloved farm at Canton, and resumed, with apparent
delight, the occupations of a rustic life. Visitors have related how
they found him at work in his fields, in the midst of his farmhands,
setting an example of industry and zeal. His house was the shrine of
many a pilgrimage; and, as profound regret at the loss of such a man
from the councils of the State took the place of a less honourable
sentiment, his popularity began to return. Already, as the time for
the nomination of a President drew near, men were looking to him, as
an illustrious representative of the principles and hereditary faith
of the Democratic-Republican party, in whose hands the country would
be safe, no matter from what quarter the tempest might come."--Morgan
Dix, _Memoirs of John A. Dix_, Vol. 1, p. 228.]

[Footnote 367: Jabez D. Hammond, _Political History of New York_, Vol.
3, p. 729.]

The death of Silas Wright produced a profound sensation. Since the
decease of DeWitt Clinton the termination of no public career in the
State caused more real sorrow. Until then, the people scarcely
realised how much they loved and respected him, and all were quick to
admit that the history of the Commonwealth furnished few natures
better fitted than his, morally and intellectually, for great public
trusts. Perhaps he cannot be called a man of genius; but he was a man
of commanding ability, with that absolute probity and good sense which
are the safest gifts of a noble character.

On the