Here is the letter: 

LEVANT, 2 deg. 2’ S. at 131 deg.  W.

DEAR FRED: 

I try to find heart and life to tell you that it is all over with dear old Nolan.  I have been with him on this voyage more than I ever was, and I can understand wholly now the way in which you used to speak of the dear old fellow.  I could see that he was not strong, but I had no idea the end was so near.  The doctor has been watching him very carefully, and yesterday morning came to me and told me that Nolan was not so well, and had not left his state-room—­a thing I never remember before.  He had let the doctor come and see him as he lay there—­the first time the doctor had been in the state-room—­and he said he should like to see me.  Oh, dear! do you remember the mysteries we boys used to invent about his room in the old Intrepid days?  Well, I went in, and there, to be sure, the poor fellow lay in his berth, smiling pleasantly as he gave me his hand, but looking very frail.  I could not help a glance round, which showed me what a little shrine he had made of the box he was lying in.  The Stars and Stripes were triced up above and around a picture of Washington, and he had painted a majestic eagle, with lightnings blazing from his beak and his foot just clasping the whole globe, which his wings overshadowed.  The dear old boy saw my glance, and said, with a sad smile, “Here, you see, I have a country!” And then he pointed to the foot of his bed, where I had not seen before a great map of the United States, as he had drawn it from memory, and which he had there to look upon as he lay.  Quaint, queer old names were on it, in large letters:  “Indiana Territory,” “Mississippi Territory,” and “Louisiana Territory.”  I suppose our fathers learned such things:  but the old fellow had patched in Texas, too; he had carried his western boundary all the way to the Pacific, but on that shore he had defined nothing.

“O Captain,” he said, “I know I am dying.  I cannot get home.  Surely you will tell me something now?—­Stop! stop!  Do not speak till I say what I am sure you know, that there is not in this ship, that there is not in America—­God bless her!—­a more loyal man than I. There cannot be a man who loves the old flag as I do, or prays for it as I do, or hopes for it as I do.  There are thirty-four stars in it now, Danforth.  I thank God for that, though I do not know what their names are.  There has never been one taken away:  I thank God for that.  I know by that that there has never been any successful Burr, O Danforth, Danforth,” he sighed out, “how like a wretched night’s dream a boy’s idea of personal fame or of separate sovereignty seems; when one looks back on it after such a life as mine!  But tell me—­tell me something—­tell me everything, Danforth, before I die!”

Ingham, I swear to you that I felt like a monster that I had not told him everything before.  Danger or no danger, delicacy or