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he was in his usual health and spirits. Talked about getting a new carpet for his room like Johnsons and wanted him to send him in a piece of it and spoke of his avidity to go to painting. He (Johnson) left to go to his lunch and came back in half an hour to find him sleeping on his sofa dead. His physicians say that he died of appoplexy and that his death was sudden and painless. But to think of Kensett loved of so many dying alone. While I was there two gentlemen came in and after a short communication with Mr. Olyphant they went into the next room to see the body. When they came out Mr. Olyphant told me that the elder was Kensetts brother who lives in Baltimore. Sadly enough he had been in the city for two days, but very bush, and knowing his brother was almost well he had set apart today to go and visit him. The first intimation he had of this event was the return of the telegram sent to him at Baltimore. I went in to see all that was left of the genial Kensett, the body without the soul saddest spectacle in life. He lay on the sofa where he died, but it had been removed to the little room adjoining his sitting room. I was entirely overcome by the sight in such sad contrast with his appearance the last time I saw him. Finding I could be of no service there I went around to the Century to attend the meeting of the nominating committee of which I am a member. The news of Kensetts death soon became known and carried a profound feeling of sorrow. One of our sad duties was to put a new name in place of Kensetts as trustee of the club. A paper was handed round calling on the Club to take some special action in relation to his death. As I begin to realise this death I am more and more saddened and impressed with the sorrows and trials of life and with the uncertain tenure of our stay here. Kensett was one of those men with whom the idea of passing away was never associated. No artist could have been more widely