CONCORD, January 10, 1862.
DEAR FRIEND,--You have not been informed of Henry's condition this
winter, and will be sorry to hear that he grows feebler day by day,
and is evidently failing and fading from our sight. He gets some
sleep, has a pretty good appetite, reads at intervals, takes notes of
his readings, and likes to see his friends, conversing, however, with
difficulty, as his voice partakes of his general debility. We had
thought this oldest inhabitant of our Planet would have chosen to stay
and see it fairly dismissed into the Chaos (out of which he has
brought such precious jewels,--gifts to friends, to mankind generally,
diadems for fame to coming followers, forgetful of his own claims to
the honors) before he chose simply to withdraw from the spaces and
times he has adorned with the truth of his genius. But the masterly
work is nearly done for us here. And our woods and fields are
sorrowing, though not in sombre, but in robes of white, so becoming to
the piety and probity they have known so long, and soon are to miss.
There has been none such since Pliny, and it will be long before there
comes his like; the most sagacious and wonderful Worthy of his time,
and a marvel to coming ones.
I write at the suggestion of his sister, who thought his friends would
like to be informed of his condition to the latest date.
Ever yours and respectfully,