CONCORD, March 21, 1862.
DEAR SIR,--I thank you for your very kind letter, which, ever since I
received it, I have intended to answer before I died, however briefly.
I am encouraged to know, that, so far as you are concerned, I have not
written my books in vain. I was particularly gratified, some years
ago, when one of my friends and neighbors said, "I wish you would
write another book,--write it for me." He is actually more familiar
with what I have written than I am myself.
The verses you refer to in Conway's _Dial_ were written by F. B.
Sanborn of this town. I never wrote for that journal.
I am pleased when you say that in the "Week" you like especially
"those little snatches of poetry interspersed through the book," for
these, I suppose, are the least attractive to most readers. I have not
been engaged in any particular work on Botany, or the like, though, if
I were to live, I should have much to report on Natural History
generally.
You ask particularly after my health. I _suppose_ that I have not many
months to live; but, of course, I know nothing about it. I may add
that I am enjoying existence as much as ever, and regret nothing.
Yours truly,
HENRY D. THOREAU,
by SOPHIA E. THOREAU.
He died May 6, 1862; his mother died March 12, 1872, and his sister
Sophia, October, 1876. With the death of his aunt, Maria Thoreau,
nearly twenty years after her beloved nephew, the last person of the
name in America (or perhaps in England) passed away.