The  end  fell  sudden  and  soon,  with  singular  drama
of  its  own.  For  more  than  forty  years  a  strenuous
round  of  labour  and  a  yet  more  strenuous  circle  of
human  thought  had  been  filled.  A  full  measure
of  life  had  been  experienced — all  that  goes  to  a
man's  hope,  and  endeavour,  and  agony — in  poetic
passion,  labouring  personality,  strong  affections,
ambitious  aspirations ;  in  social  toil  and  love,  in
"  remote "  and  unassisted  travail.  The  height  had
been  trodden  in  strange  fierce  rapture,  the  deep
sounded  in  black  hours  of  lonely  torment.  Few
have  known  more  of  what  the  heart  can  traverse  and
dread  on  its  dim  and  perilous  way,  or  what  it  can
arrogate  to  itself  in  wild  sweet  journeys,  and  swift
flights  out  of  time  and  sense.  Few  have  more
passionately  urged  the  question  that  is  answered  in
one  brief  word — and  in  one  only.  To  the  world
generally  it  seemed  that  Gilfillan  was  settling  into
the  ripe  October  season,  the  Sturm  und  Drang  all
over,  the  eldern  time  of  interest  in  young  lives  and
young  marriages  come  on,  with  full  relish  for  all  the
old  debates  and  enthusiasms,  but  a  calmer  will,  a
steadier  pulse.  And  to  some  extent  it  was  so.  He
travelled  and  tasted  the  joy  of  new  mountain-lands,
comparing  them  with  the  old  ;  he  had  a  host  of
friends  and  enough  money  for  all  wants.  Outwardly,
there  was  every  indication  of  health  and  mental
verve,  and  a  green  old  age.  Only  a  few  noted  the


446  GEORGE  GILFILLAN.
