This is no place for eulogy and panegyric.  My task has been just to trace the portrait of my friend as he appeared to others; his own words shall reveal the inner spirit.  The beauty of the life to me was that he attained, unconsciously and gradually, to the very virtues which he most desired and in which he felt himself to he most deficient.  He had to bear a series of devastating calamities.  He had loved the warmth and nearness of his home circle more deeply than most men, and the whole of it was swept away; he had depended for stimulus and occupation alike upon his artistic work, and the power was taken from him at the moment of his highest achievement.  His loss of fortune is not to be reckoned among his calamities, because it was no calamity to him.  He ended by finding a richer treasure than any that he had set out to obtain; and I remember that he said to me once, not long before his end, that whatever others might feel about their own lives, he could not for a moment doubt that his own had been an education of a deliberate and loving kind, and that the day when he realised that, when he saw that there was not a single incident in his life that had not a deep and an intentional value for him, was one of the happiest days of his whole existence.  I do not know that he expected anything or speculated on what might await him hereafter; he put his future, just as he put his past and his present, in the hands of God, to Whom he committed himself “as unto a faithful Creator.”

THE ALTAR FIRE

September 8, 1888.

We came back yesterday, after a very prosperous time at Zermatt; we have been there two entire months.  Yes, it was certainly prosperous!  We had delicious weather, and I have seen a number of pleasant people.  I have done a great deal of walking, I have read a lot of novels and old poetry, I have sate about a good deal in the open air; but I do not really like Switzerland; there are of course an abundance of noble wide-hung views, but there are few vignettes, little on which the mind and heart dwell with an intimate and familiar satisfaction.  Those airy pinnacles of toppling rocks, those sheets of slanted snow, those ice-bound crags—­there is a sense of fear and mystery about them!  One does not know what is going on there, what they are waiting for; they have no human meaning.  They do not seem to have any relation to humanity at all.  Sunday after Sunday one used to have sermons in that hot, trim little wooden church—­some from quite famous preachers—­about the need of rest, the advantage of letting the mind and eye dwell in awe upon the wonderful works of God.  Of course the mountains are wonderful enough; but they make me feel that humanity plays a very trifling part in the mind and purpose of God.  I do not think that if I were a preacher of the Gospel, and had a speculative turn, I should care to take a holiday among the mountains.  I should be beset by a dreary