the embodiment of weakness; still, he enjoys seeing his friends, and every bright hour he devotes to his manuscripts, which he is preparing for publication. For many weeks he has spoken only in a faint whisper. Henry accepts this dispensation with such childlike trust, and is so happy, that I feel as if he were being translated, rather than dying in the ordinary way of most mortals. I hope you will come and see him soon, and be cheered. He desires me to tell you that he cannot rise to greet a guest, and has not been out for three months. Few of his friends realize how sick he is, his spirits are always so good."
He died on the 6th of May following,—less than a year from the day when he started for Niagara and Minnesota; and he was never able, in the press of earlier literary work (which had to be prepared for publication after his death), to go over his notes of the journey, and so much as indicate in what order they should be edited. Yet even without his exact method and his humorous touches, they will be welcome to a fast-increasing circle of readers.
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