I may add a word or two on the extent of his sympathies with humanity. What a love he cherished for superior talents in every ennobling pursuit in life--how deep an interest he felt in the fortunes of his scientific and literary friends--what gratification he enjoyed in the physical inquiries of Dekay and Le Conte, the muse of Halleck and of Bryant, the painting of Cole, the sculpture of Greenough! Dunlap, were he speaking, might tell you of his gratuities to the unfortunate playwright and the dramatic performer. With the mere accumulators of money--those golden calves whose hearts are as devoid of emotion as their brains of the faculty of cogitation--he held no congenial communion at any time: they could not participate in the fruition of his pastime; and he felt in himself an innate superiority in the gifts with which nature had endowed him. He was ever vigilant, a keen observer of men and things; and in conversation frank and emphatic. It was a gratifying spectacle to encounter him with old Col. Trumbull, the historical painter, descanting on the many excellencies of Cole's pencil, in the delineation of American forest-scenery--a theme the richest in the world for Mr. Cooper's contemplation. A Shylock with his money-bags never glutted over his possessions with a happier feeling than did these two eminent individuals--the venerable Colonel with his patrician dignity, and Cooper with his somewhat aristocratic bearing, yet democratic sentiment; the one fruitful with the glories of the past, the other big with the stirring events of his country's progress, in the refinement of arts, and national power. Trumbull was one of the many old men I knew who delighted in Cooper's writings, and who in conversation dwelt upon his captivating genius.