The buoyant hopes raised by the removal of the patient were dashed, however, in a few days, by the undoubted evidence of blood-poisoning, and the presence of an abscess in the right lung. Many thought the last hope was gone. Others still clung to the hope which the patient’s great physical vitality and uniform courage inspired. But he grew worse; and, on the seventeenth day of September, appeared to be beyond mortal aid. The medical attendants well-nigh despaired of him, although there was no evidence of speedy dissolution. Two days later, September nineteenth, there appeared slight improvement.

The lights were lowered for the night; Mrs. Garfield and the physicians retired; and the illustrious sleeper was left alone with his watchers.

Within ten minutes after the physicians and Mrs. Garfield retired, the President awoke with a groan. Placing his hand upon his heart, he said to General Swaim, “Oh, Swaim! what a terrible pain I have here!” Dr. Bliss was summoned from an adjoining room hastily, and the moment he fastened his eye upon the sufferer he exclaimed, “My God, Swaim, he is dying; call Mrs. Garfield.” From that moment he appeared to be unconscious, although he fixed his eyes upon his wife as she hurriedly entered the room, and seemed to follow her as she moved around to the other side of the bed to take his hand in hers. His eyes were wide open, but dazed; his pulse only fluttered; he gasped, and was no more. At thirty-five minutes past ten o’clock, Dr. Bliss pronounced life extinct! A sudden and terrible change from the hope inspired at ten o’clock! The President of the United States—her favourite son, scholar, and statesman—was dead!