seeking.

The first thing that I have to say to you about it is, that
when you get this letter it will be over and done, and that I
want you, for God's sake, not to make any fuss. No one will
find my body and no one will care about it. You need not think
it necessary to notify the newspapers--what I'm sending you
here is literature and not journalism. I have no earthly
belongings left except these MSS., upon which you will have to
pay the toll. I have written to M----, a man who once did some
typewriting for me, asking him to use a dollar he owes me in
putting a notice in one of the papers. I suppose I owe that to
the people out West.

I can't write you to-night--before God I can't; my head is going
like a steel-mill, and I'm _so_ sick. You will get over
this somehow, and go on and do your task and win. And if the
memory of my prayer can help you, that will be something. Do
the work of both of us if you can. Only, if you do pull through,
remember my last cry--remember the young artist! There is no
other fight so worth fighting--take it upon you--shout it day
and night at them--what things they do with their young artists!

God bless you, dear friend. Yours, ARTHUR.

The above is the only tidings of him, excepting the extended accounts of
his death which appeared in the New York Times and the New York World for
June 10 and 11, 1902, and several letters which he wrote to other people.
There remains only to say a few words as to the journal.