* * * * *
_Note_.--Here ends my poor cousin's memoir. He was found dead from
effusion of blood on the brain, with his pen still in his hand, and his
head bowed down on his unfinished manuscript, on the margin of which he
had just sketched a small boy wheeling a toy wheelbarrow full of stones
from one open door to another. One door is labelled _Passé_, the
other _Avenir_.
I arrived in England, after a long life spent abroad, at the time his
death occurred, but too late to see him alive. I heard much about him
and his latter days. All those whose duties brought them into contact
with him seemed to have regarded him with a respect that bordered on
veneration.
I had the melancholy satisfaction of seeing him in his coffin. I had
not seen him since he was twelve years old.
As he lay there, in his still length and breadth, he appeared
gigantic--the most magnificent human being I ever beheld; and the
splendor of his dead face will haunt my memory till I die.