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‘ [24] never sneered. Never, in all my life, did I hear him say a bitter word.’

There were but few who did not think his constant gayety proved a lack of depth and strength of feeling. It was not so. Those who should know best know that, as there never throbbed a richer, nobler, more abundant nature, so there never was a heart of truer and tenderer sympathy, nor one in which all the ties of family love and social interest were more keenly felt and habitually recognized. But though Frank did not wear his heart upon his sleeve, not the less faithfully did it beat to the last for those who loved him.

Indeed, his filial love was something more than affection. It was his inspiration in the noblest resolve of his life. In the last days, when all his native graces glowed with a diviner light, caught from self-sacrifice, this filial tenderness showed itself in a wonderful insight, which taught him how to comfort one parent with whispered reminiscences of the other.

All his tastes, talents, and associations impelled him to the profession of law. Having graduated with honor in 1859, he became a student in the law offices of Horace Gray, Jr., and the late Wilder Dwight, Esq., of Boston. The story of his life at this time is well told in his letters.

January 6, 1860.

I write this seated in the office of Horace Gray, Jr., where I am engaged in studying law. As the statue is pre-existent in the block of marble, so in me may be discerned potential Kents and Storys, which is of course a gratifying reflection, “besides vich,” as Sam Weller says, “it's wery affectina to one's feelin's.” In a worldly point of view, I prosper. My Western pupil has withdrawn to his native wilds, and I don't expect to resume my charge of his intellect before March; so that one source of income is withdrawn. But I get two hundred dollars a year for writing book notices weekly for the Advertiser, and am engaged to write anything I choose, editorial or otherwise, for the New York Evening Post; and to write for the Atlantic every month at six dollars per page.

One of his letters, written at this time, contains a remarkable narrative of a conversation which he had with a friend

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