My poor friend "Oberon"--[See the sketch or story entitled "The Devil in Manuscript," in "The Snow-Image, and other Twice-Told Tales."]--for let me be allowed to distinguish him by so quaint a name--sleeps with the silent ages. He died calmly. Though his disease was pulmonary, his life did not flicker out like a wasted lamp, sometimes shooting up into a strange temporary brightness; but the tide of being ebbed away, and the noon of his existence waned till, in the simple phraseology of Scripture, "he was not." The last words he said to me were, "Burn my papers,--all that you can find in yonder escritoire; for I fear there are some there which you may be betrayed into publishing. I have pu…
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