------ "The sounding cataract
Haunted [him] <him> like a passion: the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colours and their forms, were then to him
An appetite; a feeling, and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, or any interest
[Unborrowed] <Unborrow'd> from the [eye*."] <eye"*>
* Wordsworth's Tintern Abbey.

And where does he now exist? Is this gentle and lovely being lost forever? Has this [mind] <mind,> so replete with ideas, imaginations fanciful and magnificent, which formed a world, whose existence depended on the life of its [creator; has] <creator; -- has> this mind perished? Does it now only exist in my memory? No, it is not thus; your form so divinely wrought, and beaming with beauty, has decayed, but your spirit still visits and consoles your unhappy [friend] <friend.>

Pardon this gush of sorrow; these ineffectual words are but a slight tribute to the unexampled worth of Henry, but they soothe my heart, overflowing with the anguish which his remembrance creates. I will proceed with my tale.