erable. He came down to
Tremans just before, and it was clear that he suffered greatly; but so
far from dreading the operation, he anticipated it with a sense of
immense relief, and after it was over, though he was long unwell, he was
in the highest spirits. But he said after he came back from Rome that he
felt ten years older; and I can recall his coming down to Cambridge not
long after and indulging one evening in an immense series of yawns, for
which he apologised, saying, "I'm tired, I'm tired--not at the top, but
deep down inside, don't you know?"

[Illustration: _Photo by H. Abbott, Lindfield_

AT TREMANS, HORSTED KEYNES

DECEMBER, 1913

A. C. Benson. R. H. Benson. E. F. Benson.
Aged 51. Aged 42. Aged 46.]

But it was not until 1914 that his health really declined. He came over
to Cambridge at the beginning of August, when the war was impending. He
stayed with me over the Sunday; he was tired and overstrained,
complained that he felt unable to fix his mind upon anything, and he was
in considerable depression about the possibility of war. I have never
seen him so little able to throw off an anxiety; but he dined in Hall
with me on the Sunday night, met some old friends, and was full of talk.
He told me later in the evening that he was in much anxiety about some
anonymous menace which he had received. He would not enter into details,
but he spoke very gravely about it. However, later in the month, I went
over with a friend to see him at Hare Street, and found him in cheerful
spirits in spite of everything. He had just got the place, he said,
into perfect order, and now all it wanted was to be left alone. It was a
day of bright hot sunlight, and we lunched out of doors near the chapel
under the shade of the yew trees. He produced a peculiar and pleasant
wine, which he had made on the most scientific principles out of his own
grapes. We went round and looked at everything, and he showed me the
preparation for the last adornment, which was to be a rose garden near
the chapel. We walked into the orchard and stood near the Calvary,
little thinking that he would be laid to rest there hardly two months
later.

The weeks passed on, and at the end of September I went to stay near
Ambleside with some cousins, the Marshalls, in a beautiful house called
Skelwith Fold, among lovely woodlands, with the mountains rising on
every side, and a far-off view down Langdale. Here I found Hugh staying.
He was