Mrs. Monroe died suddenly in 1830, and thus was ended the old home-life. Oak Hill was closed, and the crushed husband sought refuge from loneliness in the home of his daughter, Mrs. Gouverneur, in New York, whose devoted affection soothed his pathway to the grave.

The venerable Dr. Francis tells us that he often met Mr. Monroe walking out when the weather was fine, and that on these occasions he was the object of the most affectionate attentions. He has often met him making purchases for the family, at the Centre Market, where all the stallmen knew and honored him.

He was tall and spare, very modest in his bearing, dignified and gentlemanly. In his address, he was hesitating and diffident, and polite to the poorest and humblest as to any. He was one of the most industrious of men, a hard student, and his cares left their marks on his face. The wound he received at Trenton was felt for many years afterward—indeed, throughout his life he occasionally suffered from it.

Less than a year after Mrs. Monroe’s death her husband was preparing to join her. On the 4th of July, 1831, the anniversary of American Independence, just five years after his predecessors had quitted this scene of their labor and their triumph, he, too, joined them.

His funeral was a very imposing one—the largest that at that time had ever been seen in New York. The military under Gen. Jacob Morton, Grand Marshal, filled Broadway from Prince to Broad Street, through which it passed to the cemetery. The day was fine, and the signs of mourning were generally adopted by the citizens of New York.

There is an old cemetery on the north side of Second street, in this city (New York), between First and Second Avenues, separated from the sidewalk by a tall iron fence, placed upon a granite foundation.

The shrubbery is always clean and vigorous; the grass is always the greenest, and the walks are scrupulously neat. There are many tasteful and appropriate monuments to the dead that sleep within this hallowed inclosure; but to the memory of the most famous of its dumb inhabitants there was no marble shaft, no obelisk, not even a head-stone erected. But upon a simple slab of marble that lies flat, some two feet square, upon the earth, and is almost covered by grass, is the following inscription:

JAMES MONROE,

ROBERT TILLOTSON,

Vault No. 147.