long walks, and preferred the simple life. In his rooms were many
souvenirs of early travel. His walls were covered with the finest
engravings and paintings from the best American artists. He was too
willing to be imposed upon by young authors and would-be poets. He
said: "People expect too much of me, altogether too much." That Sunday
was his last before his address on Mazzini in Central Park. He
finished with the hot sun over his head, and walking across the park
to the house of Grant Wilson, he fell down faint and hopelessly ill on
the doorstep. He never rallied, and after thirteen days the end came.
An impressive warning to the old, who are selfishly urged to do hard
tasks, that they must conserve their own vitality. Bryant was
eighty-four when killed by over-exertion, with a mind as wonderful as
ever.

I will now recount the conditions when Ezekiel Webster and his second
wife took their wedding trip in a "one hoss shay" to the White
Mountains in 1826.

Grandma lived to be ninety-six, with her mind as clear as ever, and
two years before her death she gave me this story of their experiences
at that time. My mother told me she knew of more than thirty proposals
she had received after grandfather's death, but she said "she would
rather be the widow of Ezekiel Webster, than the wife of any other
man." The following is her own description.

The only house near the Crawford Notch was the Willey House, in
which the family were living. A week before a slide had come
down by the side of the house and obstructed the road. Mr.
Willey and two men came to our assistance, taking out the horse
and lifting the carriage over the débris.