and among the Pyrenees.  In September he was joined by his wife in Paris, and thence went with her through Switzerland to Italy.  He had scarcely reached Florence before he became alarmingly ill with symptoms of a low malaria fever.  His exhausted constitution never rallied against its attack.  He sank gradually away, and died on the 13th of November.  “I have leave till November, and by that time I hope I shall be strong again for another good spell of work.”  That hope is accomplished;—­

  “For sure in the wide heaven there is room
  For love, and pity, and for helpful deeds.”

He was buried in the little Protestant cemetery at Florence, a fit resting-place for a poet, the Protestant Santa Croce, where the tall cypresses rise over the graves, and the beautiful hills keep guard around.

“Every one who knew Clough even slightly,” says one of his oldest friends, “received the strongest impression of the unusual breadth and massiveness of his mind.  Singularly simple and genial, he was unfortunately cast upon a self-questioning age, which led him to worry himself with constantly testing the veracity of his own emotions.  He has delineated in four lines the impression which his habitual reluctance to converse on the deeper themes of life made upon those of his friends who were attracted by his frank simplicity.  In one of his shorter poems he writes,—­

  ’I said, My heart is all too soft;
  He who would climb and soar aloft
  Must needs keep ever at his side
  The tonic of a wholesome pride.’

That expresses the man in a very remarkable manner.  He had a kind of proud simplicity about him singularly attractive, and often singularly disappointing to those who longed to know him well.  He had a fear, which many would think morbid, of leaning much on the approbation of the world.  And there is one remarkable passage in his poems in which he intimates that men who live on the good opinion of others might even be benefited by a crime which would rob them of that evil stimulant:—­

  ’Why, so is good no longer good, but crime
  Our truest, best advantage, since it lifts us
  Out of the stifling gas of men’s opinion
  Into the vital atmosphere of Truth,
  Where He again is visible, though in anger.’

“So eager was his craving for reality and perfect sincerity, so morbid his dislike even for the unreal conventional forms of life, that a mind quite unique in simplicity and truthfulness represents itself in his poems as

  ’Seeking in vain, in all my store,
  One feeling based on truth.’

“Indeed, he wanted to reach some guaranty for simplicity deeper than simplicity itself.  We remember his principal criticism on America, after returning from his residence in Massachusetts, was, that the New-Englanders were much simpler than the English, and that this was the great charm of New-England society.  His own habits were of the same kind, sometimes almost austere in their simplicity.  Luxury he disliked, and sometimes his friends thought him even ascetic.