egin to wither, mind and body, and one
hates the idea of a mummy, intellectual or physical. Do you remember
that picture of extreme old age which Charles Reade gives us in 'Never
Too Late to Mend'? George Fielding, the hero, is about going away from
England to try his luck in Australia. All his friends and relations are
around him, expressing their sorrow at his enforced voyage; all but
his grandfather, aged ninety-two, who sits stolid and mumbling in his
armchair.

"'Grandfather!' shouts George into the deafened ears, 'I'm going a long
journey; mayhap shall never see you again; speak a word to me before I
go!' Grandfather looks up, brightens for a moment, and cackles feebly
out: 'George, fetch me some _SNUFF_ from where you're going. See now'
(half whimpering), 'I'm out of snuff.' A good point in the way of
illustration, but not a pleasant picture."

On the 13th of September, ten days after Timrod's return to Columbia, he
wrote me the following note:--

"Dear P----: I have been too sick to write before, and am still too sick
to drop you more than a few lines. You will be surprised and pained to
hear that I have had a severe hemorrhage of the lungs.

"I did not come home an instant too soon. I found them without money or
provisions. Fortunately I brought with me a small sum. I won't tell you
how small, but six dollars of it was from the editor of the 'Opinion'
for my last poem.

"I left your climate to my injury. But not only for the sake of my
health, I begin already to look back with longing regret to 'Copse
Hill'. You have all made me feel as if I had TWO beloved homes!

"I wish that I could divide myself between them; or that I had wings, so
that I might flit from one to other in a moment.

"I hope soon to write you at length. Yours," etc.

Again on the 16th I heard from him, thus:--

"Yesterday I had a still more copious hemorrhage!...

"I am lying supine in bed, forbidden to speak or make any exertion
whatever. But I can't resist the temptation of dropping you a line, in
the hope of calling forth a score or two from you in return.

"An awkward time this for me to be sick! We are destitute of funds,
almost of food. But God will provide!

"I send you a Sonnet, written the other day, as an Obituary for Mr.
Harris Simons. Tell me what you think of it--be sure! Love to your
mother, wife, and my precious Willie [since the death of his own child
he had turned with a yearning affection to my boy]. Let me hea