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that forever-fluctuating compromise which is life. . . . All this is crudely thought and hastily written. I have not given as you know, the best of my intellect to these problems, because I saw early in life that my intellect was better suited for other things. And I firmly believe that the world will be best served by each man discovering what his natural pyov is, and doing that as well as he can. The world is a symphony in which flutes and horns have places as well as violins. But a certain set of politico-economic prigs would fain have all men be fiddles-and themselves first fid


gone down to the empty weary house, Where no flesh is nor beauty, nor swift eyes, Nor sound of mouth nor might of hands and feet.

Beati mortui. Let the readers of these pages, and let his friends - friends who have known him more intimately, and who will, no doubt, do far more for the character which I have here striven to delineate-forgive me if I have touched the note of personal sorrow. In these volumes, to which he was so welcome and so generous a contributor, he at least deserved some tribute of

than his own lines?


In looking through a bundle of his respect. Far away in the Eternal City he fell asleep. His work and his influletters which I still have, I would gladly cite page after page of them; for his ence survive him. They will assuredly own words would best convey to the live so long as any remain who knew outside world his intense sympathy him, and so long as men care to read with every turn of thought, every the records of a finely cultivated intelphase of development, every subject lect, laboring with untiring industry which can be of human interest. But and with an unbounded love for all that these were not meant for publication. is beautiful and good. What more fitIt is hard to write about one's lost ting words to lay upon his resting-place friend without intruding too much upon matters which are and ought ever to be respected as too sacred to be exposed to the public gaze, and hard to do justice to his memory without obtruding too much upon the reader one's own personal feelings of affection and sorrow. When I heard that he was gone, old memories came crowding up and thoughts and feelings far too deep for tears. It seems only as it were yesterday when we sat and read together :

They told me, Heracleitus, they told me thou wert dead;

They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed.

The volume of verse, the first which he published, given to me with his own hand, lies before me now. The lines which I had seen him write, and retouch and polish with exquisite taste and care, seem to speak as with his own voice his that was always the voice of affection and friendship, hushed now, alas, in that

Sleep that art named eternal. Is there,


No chance of waking in thy noiseless realm?
He is indeed gone -

From the sorrow and the care
To which mortal love is heir

He hath fled and he hath found
Peace and slumber underground.
Lay him 'neath the quiet turf
Far from ocean's plunging surf,
Far from sound of hurrying feet
Up and down the cruel street:
Leave him there and let him lie:
Brush the tear-drops from your eye:
Not a sound of grief be heard,
Lest his peaceful sleep be stirred.

From The Cornhill Magazine. SOME HIGH NOTES.

Villa Rosatch, S. Moritz, July 26th. "Mossieu repond pas ! says the boots of the Steinbock at Chur, looking as if he were going to cry with vexation. He stands outside my bedroom door in his stocking-feet with a paper in his hand, and knocks with rustic timidity at the doors of such as are in want of the early diligence for S. Moritz. But, "Mossieu repond pas!" says he distressfully, in German-Swiss-French; so I beat my fists on my companion's door,

like a toy rabbit on a drum. It is half | riage, and a peasant's cart is just above. past four, and, though we in the valley | Near the top of the pass, seven thouare grey, sunlight is stealing among the sand three hundred and sixty feet snow patches on the mountains. The only sound in the hotel, save the soft footfall and timid knocking of the boots, is the brawl and rush of the Plessur River; so close, that it seems to be pouring along the corridors and cascading down the stairs. Outside, I can see them washing carriages round the village fountain; for this is the end of the railway, and we have fifty miles and more to drive to the Engadine.

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above the sea -or say a mile and a half or so above the nigger minstrels rattling on Ramsgate sands we pause to breathe at the last house, grey and solitary; the true top, one hundred and forty feet higher up, is marked by two round milestones placed there by Augustus when he made his military road from Chiavenna down to Chur. They are old, very old, but the snows above are older. "What are two thousand years?" the snows above seem to say with a ghastly white sneer; "you poor pieces of mica slate! Why, we are the direct representatives of the first snow that fell after the flood!"

At last, the time being four in the afternoon, the sun blazing down on us, it is clear we draw near Italy. The wirthschaft becomes osteria; the handlung, negozio; the haymakers resemble our Own dear organ grinders with And now, just as we went up, up, so scythes; the women, with colored we go down, down, the same zigzags, handkerchiefs bound round their heads, at a steady trot, sharply round and recall the ladies who stand with little round, down to the Engadine and its birds for fortune-telling in the Bromp- lakes of malachite. Above, far away, ton Road; the insurance plates on the are the snows of the Bernina; far behouses instead of Basel bear Trieste.low us through the dark green pines On that track like a bridle-path in the we see the white toy houses of SilvaIsle of Wight, or a carrier's road from plana and its little lake, that now looks the Norfolk coast to London, there almost like spilt quicksilver in the crawls the Septimer route, once crossed meadows. When we lumber into S. by emperors of Rome and Germany Moritz and lurch up at the post-office, with their hordes, over the mountains my face is so stiff with sun and breeze down to Maloya and the Val d'Inferno; and here is ours, the Julier Pass, that for the next two hours holds us clinched in its zigzags, like the child's toy that opens out for wooden soldiers. Up, up, for two hours we crawl in the diligence like a gaudy fly in the hot sun, our only comrades in the waste the

it feels like a mask, and I can scarcely unbend it to direct the splendid hotel porter in blue and gold to our luggage.

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Wednesday. The chief charm of S. Moritz, at least to me, lies in its streets of wooden shops, of photographs, old silver, olive wood; even Caspari's, where they crowd for afterweather-beaten telegraph-poles. noon tea. It reminds me of what the Something pathetic to me in the con- Pantiles must have been once at Tuntemplation of those wires that run from bridge Wells; indeed, the whole of S. South Kensington to the Kulm at S. Moritz-bad looks rather tentative, as Moritz, the last chance for the poor though cautious speculators were waitconsumptive. How often must they ing to see if its fashion were really pernot have sadly flashed, "George died manent before making it more solid. last night, quite painlessly;" or " Amy Perhaps some of the look may be due worse, hopeless ;" and now stout and yet peeling from the so great extremes of weather, they stretch straight up the desolate pass; while we crawl and bend up, up, so sharply that the blue and red umbrellas of the daughters of America are just below us in their car


to everything being shut up in the winter and lying snug under deep snow for four or five months. The village, the highest in the Engadine, where the invalids spend their winter, is three-quarters of a mile off above the lake; and there we stroll to look for rooms, seeing

were the only ornaments. In the Catholic chapel a servant girl and three little children were having a lively sort of nursery talk. As we came in they bethought themselves of prayer, and down went the maid on her knees, crossing herself devoutly. The children looked at her sudden dive in astonishment, then saw us and did the same; only the youngest, in her haste to begin, toppled over and fell under the seat. Saints and angels, you never heard a child yell so lustily in your life! The shops are most of them open;

that we have come here for quiet, and it was quite plain and whitewashed. that living at our hotel is rather like A large pulpit of inlaid wood, with a taking up residence at the Café Royal sounding-board and an hour-glass, like in Regent Street. And there, in the the one John Knox is thundering out Villa Rosatch, we find them, with a of in Wilkie's picture, and a text in little balcony looking over the lake, and Romanisch-Deo sola gloria ed honur a huge trout rod hanging over the side of it, like a sign for a tackle-shop; with great stoves in the corners in case the snow come; with carpets, rare luxury in the Engadine, and with the electric light hanging like a frozen water lily from the ceiling. Strange, this mixture of extreme Alpine simplicity and the electric light one observes everywhere in the Engadine. At night, when black shadows lie thunderous under the broad wooden eaves, and through the deep-sunk windows you see peasant heads round a yellow lamp of paraffin, in the streets the great white globes all of them down at the baths. I went flicker and fizz as they do at Charing in and got shaved; the garçon was not Cross Station; and under the archway of this savage country, he thanked of the houses, a demi-lune in the centre heaven; he was from Paris, rue Montalmost like entering an ancient college, martre, close to the Bourse, and once the big St. Bernard lounges so that he he got back, he would never come here may sleep in the shade. In the morn-again, his sacred word of honor! He ing for part of the cure is to sleep was never warm. Did I know how with the window open we are woke much underclothing he'd got on? He by the most musical tinkle of the cattle stropped the razor in the palm of his bells, like ice clinking against the crys- hand and would tell me; which he did, tal sides of the lake. It is six o'clock, at great and particular length, of flanand the sun is shining as though it all nel. "Voyez-vous," a year ago last May were Italy in a refrigerator. he ran to catch a train, got very hot, Sunday, July 31st. The Italian hay- took off his coat, and sat with the winmakers slouch along over the cobbles in dows open; result, inflammation of the the bright morning sun, carrying their lungs and a year's illness; doctors at coats and large faded cotton umbrellas; ten francs a visit, says he, laying his under one of the house-archways they finger along his nose. "C'était assomstand chattering round piles of cheap mant!" Then in May of this year he clothing spread on tables. The other went to visit his parents in Alsace to side of the street is a gaudy stall of recover his strength and get rid of his handkerchiefs, beloved of the women; cough; did no work there; did I exarm-in-arm they stare at them. If per-pect him to piocher la terre, par exemple ? chance on the stall they see one of As a last resource, for a complete cure gayer color than they happen to have on their head they straightway buy it. Then the men lounge on the wall and point at them with their umbrellas as they go past as bright as paroquets. The sonorous church bells beat, but somehow one never sees a priest. I've seen neither priest nor beggar since rica. He must have warmth. Do I I've been here.

he came up here; when the sun shines hotly he finds it bearable; when it doesn't, je tousse, je tousse, je tousse! "Quel pays!" He's going back to Paris in September, and if he finds the winter, rue Montmartre, too much for him, he's going to try shaving in Af

understand? He must have warmth.

I looked in at one of their churches; He says that with that extreme seri

ousness which every Frenchman affects | try to civilize me; look above and see when speaking of himself. In fact, what I am, monstrous leprous snake, I'm inclined to think that the only time as I crawl up to my mountain home, so a Frenchman ever thinks it worth his dazzling white that I seem like cloud." while to be quite serious is when he is And so, indeed, it is; the higher we talking about himself. climb the cliff, the more of it we see, Tuesday. — Reader, have you ever the purer the glacier grows. Down at been on a glacier ? I like that old-its edge, its curling, scornful lip at the fashioned, magazine-article style; some-head of the valley, it looks almost like times it is " Reader, that is if ever I the Serpentine in thaw, scratched and am so fortunate as to have one." It scarred by giant skaters, rubbed with recalls youth and hot July Sunday after- loose stones like bad cement. We climb noon readings of the Leisure Hour. steadily till we reach the hut, where a Again the bright acacia waves in our rough table and seat tell us we can get London garden; again I hear the bar-milk and brandy if we please; the old row-fruitman's distant, drowsy cry of "Strawberry ripe! fine strawberry ripe!"

It was a bitter March day, this second of August, as we drove into Pontresina. Pontresina was out in the streets, looking chilly, and wondering where on earth we were going on so bad a day, with alpenstocks and all those wraps; Pontresina was of opinion, skilled opinion, that the day was going to be even worse, and that the Rosegg glacier would be impossible. But we pressed on, past the stony tennis-court and the young ladies trying to keep warm, down the five miles of harsh and broken valley road, along the noisy river that looks as though composed of melting lemon-water ices. Ragged pine-trees are all round us, and through the shifting mist we catch glimpses of the stern peaks and the everlasting snows. Three-quarters of a mile from the foot of the glacier there is a little inn, where we stop for lunch; the room, with its stove, is like the first chamber of the Turkish bath-so hot that we prefer to eat our rolls and eggs in a small, square tent outside, peaked with pert flags. We throw the remains of our pancakes to the hens, finish the coffee, and prepare to start. A guide comes out of the kitchen to look at us, with an ice-axe and a marmot's skin on his back for knapsack; but we trudge off alone, and the sky lifts and shows a patch of blue.

There is the glacier below us, dingy with its valley life. "See what you make of me," it seems to say, "if you

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man who lives there sits with his arms on the table, smoking and watching us; a boy in a tattered cloak, like a Calabrian peasant, stands looking after the cows whose bells we hear. Still we climb till we reach the cairn, where a few egg-shells and a chicken-bone or two tell of previous privations. And below is the glacier, grown pure and white, stealing out of the mist as though it were the arrested overflow from some vast fountain play in some distant, cloudy Versailles. But we must not rest; we must cross the torrent if it be not too swollen; we must reach the Mortel-hutte. Behold the Mortel-hutte! Push the heavy door and enter. Somehow the sloping planks that face us remind me of the morgue, only that they are covered with straw. In the beams above are stuffed blankets and rugs for travellers; in the corner is a gipsy fireplace, saucepans, a saw for wood, a kettle, and an axe; the other side are empty champagne and claret bottles, and the printed regulations to be observed by all who enter and remain the night. The hut is provided by the Swiss Alpine Club for climbers who wish to cross the glacier and make the ascents on the other side; a rough but kindly hospitality which asks only you should clean the saucepans before you leave. It looks rather like a genteel cow-house, and is scribbled all over with genteel names and dates. Below is ever the glacier; the edge drips, drips, and, peering under the frowning eaves, we have some notion of its majestic depth. Below


glimmers a faint, unearthly blue, like and some as rigid and dazzling in their

the sky on a brilliant, frosty February morning.

snow as tents; none of their glaciers that we could see had slipped; and yet, somewhere, the Spirit of the Alps had given an impish push to some few myriad tons of ice and rock, and some long-suffering mountain was breathing the easier for the relief. Far, far below us the ever musical tinkle of the cattle bells and the occasional sharp cry of the marmots.

Some one says the glacier is dangerous; friends, let us try. I struggle up the sloping wall of ice; my alpenstock breaks the brittle surface; I am on the top of the side ridge; a cold and mortal vapor exhales from the stealthy mass; I hear the gurgle and ripple of some under-current, the ice water that runs through the creature's hollow veins. We clambered down the side and Again (ever these cockney impressions) across the snow, down into Suvretta I feel I am on a lonely, broken Serpen-valley; thence to Campfer to tea, our tine; London is deserted, ruined, sunk faces blazing. Most comforting, most in another glacial period. Where is home-like, the sound of the church bell. the New Zealander to ask me if I won't The English service was held in the have a pair of skates on ? Ah! a dis- village church, and as we clamped over tant cry! a man striding down the the cobbles we could see the ringer in valley-side waves his stick and shouts his blouse pulling away at the bell and to me. He wants to know if we won't puffing his china pipe. The church have a guide, I suppose. Enough for was cool and whitewashed, with a glarone day; we climb the hill again, and ing piece of native stained glass at the at a dog-trot reach the restaurant in just end, like a cheap kaleidoscope. They half the time it took us to ascend. left the door open during service, and we saw the cattle going past to be milked; one stared and snuffed at us heavily; I could smell her warm and drowsy milk. Two little peasant girls stood in the doorway to watch how the foreigners prayed in their own church. You would have thought yourself in some unrestored English village edifice, only that we prayed for the president of the United States, for the Federal Council of this land; only that the ladies' jackets and dresses looked little crushed, as though they had long lain packed; only that when they knelt you saw what huge nails they had in their boots.

And there across the valley we see chamois, veritable Alpine chamois. I watch them through the glass, five of them, feeding under a rock; then, leaving each other, racing in little circles, leaping; and then, rigidly still, attentive. Down a narrow gully come six more. They stand in attitudes, as one sees them drawn in books. Gentlemen of the French Guard, fire first! And the first five begin again their circling and leaping; tempting the others, as it were, to charge. Without the glass, the hillside is lifeless and blank; absolutely nothing to be seen by the most far-sighted.

Sunday. — As we lay under a rock, eating hard-boiled eggs, we heard the roar and rattle of an avalanche. It sounded, as one says when one hears an unexpected crash in a house, like something up-stairs. It was more to me as though some huge box had slid down into nature's hold, as one sees the luggage rattled down into the hold at Dover. We could see nothing; the day was absolutely pure and motionless; all the innumerable peaks round and below us,


I strolled back to S. Moritz after service and bought the Telegraph at the library. "Out on the heell wass I all day?" asked the librarian wistfully. " Beastly it wass, dees business; all week, haf past six, haf past eight; weesh it wass over."

Villa Rosatch, S. Moritz-Dorf, August 13th. . . . "Here's some edelweiss for you. Yes, I know it's to be bought in quantities, but I really found this, and in a very imminent deadly place, too. Not like the Fex valley, where

Horns of silver, fangs of crystal set on edge, they plant little red flags alongside of

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