still left us, to be added to-day to the roll of St. Andrews'
alumni, though it must be in absence. The pomp and circumstance
of war will pass, and all others now alive may fade from the scene,
but I think the quiet figure of Hardy will live on.

I seem to be taking all my examples from the calling I was lately
pretending to despise. I should like to read you some passages of a
letter from a man of another calling, which I think will hearten you.
I have the little filmy sheets here. I thought you might like to see
the actual letter; it has been a long journey; it has been to the
South Pole. It is a letter to me from Captain Scott of the
Antarctic, and was written in the tent you know of, where it was
found long afterwards with his body and those of some other very
gallant gentlemen, his comrades. The writing is in pencil, still
quite clear, though toward the end some of the words trail away
as into the great silence that was waiting for them. It begins:

'We are pegging out in a very comfortless spot.
Hoping this letter may be found and sent to you, I write
you a word of farewell. I want you to think well of me
and my end.' (After aome private instructions too
intimate to read, he goes on): 'Goodbye--I am not at
all afraid of the end, but sad to miss many a simple
pleasure which I had planned for the future in our long
marches. . . . We are in a desperate state--feet
frozen, etc., no fuel, and a long way from food, but it
would do your heart good to be in our tent, to hear our
songs and our cheery conversation. . . . Later--(it
is here that the words become difficult)--We are very
near the end. . . . We did intend to finish ourselves