It is a voluminous catalogue—­that of Cooper’s published works—­but it comprises not all he wrote.  He committed to the fire, without remorse, many of the fruits of his literary industry.  It was understood, some years since, that he had a work ready for the press on the Middle States of the Union, principally illustrative of their social history; but it has not been found among his manuscripts, and the presumption is that he must have destroyed it.  He had planned a work on the Towns of Manhattan, for the publication of which he made arrangements with Mr. Putnam of this city, and a part of which, already written, was in press at the time of his death.  The printed part has since been destroyed by fire, but a portion of the manuscript was recovered.  The work, I learn, will be completed by one of the family, who, within a few years past, has earned an honorable name among the authors of our country.  Great as was the number of his works, and great as was the favor with which they were received, the pecuniary rewards of his success were far less than has been generally supposed—­scarcely, as I am informed, a tenth part of what the common rumor made them.  His fame was infinitely the largest acknowledgment which this most successful of American authors received for his labors.

The Ways of the Hour appeared in 1850.  At this time his personal appearance was remarkable.  He seemed in perfect health, and in the highest energy and activity of his faculties.  I have scarcely seen any man at that period of life on whom his years sat more lightly.  His conversation had lost none of its liveliness, though it seemed somewhat more genial and forbearing in tone, and his spirits none of their elasticity.  He was contemplating, I have since been told, another Leatherstocking tale, deeming that he had not yet exhausted the character; and those who consider what new resources it yielded him in the Pathfinder and the Deerslayer, will readily conclude that he was not mistaken.

The disease, however, by which he was removed, was even then impending over him, and not long afterwards his friends here were grieved to learn that his health was declining.  He came to New York so changed that they looked at him with sorrow, and after a stay of some weeks, partly for the benefits of medical advice returned to Cooperstown, to leave it no more.  His complaint gradually gained strength, subdued a constitution originally robust, and finally passed into a confirmed dropsy.  In August, 1851, he was visited by his excellent and learned friend, Dr. Francis, a member of the weekly club which he had founded in the early part of his literary career.  He found him bearing the sufferings of his disease with manly firmness, gave him such medical counsels as the malady appeared to require, prepared him delicately for its fatal termination, and returned to New York with the most melancholy anticipations.  In a few days afterwards, Cooper expired, amid the deep affliction