ngularly soulless; starkly devoid of the elements of interest and
romance which so strongly endear to the hearts of those dwelling there
the countryside in such Old World lands as the England of my birth.
Maybe. Yet I have met men, both native-born and alien-born, who have
dearly loved Australia; loved the land so well as to return to it,
even after many days.

England! Of all the place names, the names of countries that the world
has known, was ever one so simply magic as this--England? Surely not.
How the tongue caresses it! In the past it has always seemed to me
that the question of a man's place of birth was infinitely more
significant and important than the mere matter of where he died, of
where his bones were laid. And yet, even that matter of the
resting-place for a man's bones.... Undoubtedly, there is magic in
English earth. England! Thank God I was born in England!

EDITOR'S NOTE

Here the written record of my friend's life ends, though it clearly
was not part of his design that this should be its end. Thanks to Mrs.
Blades, I have a record of the date of Freydon's last writing. It came
two days before his own end. He died alone, and, by the estimate of
the doctor from Peterborough, at about daybreak. The doctor thought it
likely that he passed away in his sleep; of all ends, the one he would
have chosen.

So far as my own observation informs me, the death of Nicholas Freydon
was noted by no more than three English journals: two of the oldest
morning newspapers in London, and that literary weekly which, despite
the commercial fret and fume of our time, has so far preserved itself
from the indignity of any attempted blending of books with
haberdashery or 'fancy goods.' Had Freydon died in England, I
apprehend that a somewhat larger circle of newspaper readers might
have been advertised of the fact. But I would not willingly be
understood to suggest any kind of reproach in this.

It would probably be correct to say that the writings of Nicholas
Freydon never have reached the many-headed public, whose favour gives
an author's name weight in circulating libraries and among the
gentlemen of 'The Trade.' He had no illusions on this point, and of
late years at all events cherished no dreams of fame or immortality.
But it is equally correct to say that he was genuinely a man of
letters, and there is a circle of more or less fastidious readers who
are aware that everything published under Freydon's name w