THE YEAR 



of my wife, and other untold blessings wholly 

 undeserved, fill my heart with thankfulness to 

 the Almighty. The death of my dear old friend 

 Exeter 1 was an irreparable loss to very many 

 besides myself. The splendid summer, the 

 measure of health with which I have been 

 blessed, the endless proofs of remembrance 

 received from old friends and new, and the 

 acquisitions to my living collection, are an 

 aggregate of good that go far to wiping out 

 personal griefs and will cause me to look back 

 with intensified gratitude to God upon the Old 

 Year.' 



The year 1896 opened for my brother much 

 as its predecessors had done. All his indoor 

 occupations interested him as much as usual, 

 and with the exception of some severe twinges 

 of pain in the spring he was, to all appearance, 

 in a fair state of health. 



Perhaps some dim prevision of a life not 

 realised, some scarcely conscious intimation of 

 a coming change, which visits those who are 

 gradually being led towards the place of shadows 



1 Marquis of Exeter. 



