t is said he was on the eve of it,
and the State is believed to somewhat deplore the loss of an
opportunity for rewarding a servant it prized, doubtless, in its own
dull, routine sort of way. But he is now beyond earthly rewards or
distinctions, and neither the praise nor the blame of men can touch
him. In life he was very sensitive to kindness or coldness, but he was
of too masculine a fibre to allow the natural sweetness and contentment
of his disposition to be alloyed or marred by any such influence from
without. He loved his work for its own sake. It became his sole
occupation and serious aim in life. He deplores the weather in his very
last letter to me, most characteristically, because it interfered with
his "observations," which, with "the change" he hoped for and partly
realized, he would "_push_ along."

The epithet describes the simple, practical side of his character. His
later love of solitude was the natural outcome of that closer contact
with nature which made to him a living daily reality the command, "Thou
shalt have no other gods but Me." His last hours were ministered to
faithfully by a chaplain of the English Church in Mussooree. The
religious life of the family resigned itself speedily to that sovereign
will of heaven which means to all who have tasted of its majesty and
glory, and have seen glimpses of the wisdom and foresight that put
man's desires to shame, the submission of heart and mind in all their
integrity. Nay, more, as one from that inner circle very beautifully
put it in a letter to the writer of this memoir, "It was 'infinite
love' alone that permitted his return to us to die, surrounded by our
love," and in a lovely mountain region where for many years he spent
his annual summer and autumn "recess," working out the results of the
observations made during the rough winter's campaign, he lies buried
near the home of his loved ones. There the eternal stars give a more
brilliant light to the pure air surrounding his last resting place, and
the solemn pines and firs pointing heavenwards with their venerable age
and sighing their constant hymn give an everlasting pathos to the story
of man's day on earth. The hill sides, terraced into beds of
flowers--many wild and more cultivated, especially dahlias, which grow
in great luxuriance and richness of colour in the hills of India--form
the beautiful ground-work of an Indian cemetery in a sanitarium like
Mussooree. On that spot, as it lies, the vi