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 visitor will behold on one
side, to the south, the dark shadow of a mountain elevation, called the
"Camel's Back," by reason of its shape and sheer projection upwards,
typifying the wall of human sense at sight of death; and on the other
he will look out upon the ever-changing, though distant line of
perpetual snow. The snow view in India, on mountain regions, is beyond
description. No word-painting could give an idea of it; and few artists
have been able to reproduce the magical effects of sunrise and sunset
on the snows during the varying seasons of the year. The roseate tints
of dawn blush on their peaks till they become a flame, and pale into
iciest marble; and the evening splendours of purple and violet and
death-like blue are the phantasmagoria which no human hand has ever
made a living picture. Like the human life, it grows into beauty,
coruscates, and then passes into darkness.

Looked at from the purely materialistic side, doubtless, the lives of
men are mere seaweed thrown up by the mighty ocean of Creation on the