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while we stood almost on the brink of the cataract watching the great ice boulders thunder to the depths below。 It was a mighty and majestic scene； which the loneliness of the hour did much to enhance。
From New York we took ship for Liverpool； where we arrived without accident in due course。 I was not well at the time； having again been attacked by influenza on the voyage。 Needless to say； our homeing was very sad。 After； I think； only one night in London we came to Ditchingham； where I found my two little girls dressed in black and — a grave。
Chapter 15 ANDREW LANG
Death of Andrew Lang — Recent letters from him — Suggested further collaboration — Lecture tour in S。 Africa proposed — Letter from Charles Longman — Queen Taia’s ring。
The day on which I mence this chapter of my reminiscences — July 22； 1912 — is a sad one for me； since the first thing I saw on opening my eyes this morning was the news of the sudden death of my dear friend； Andrew Lang。 It is odd that only last Thursday； when I was in London； some vague anxiety concerning him prompted me to make an effort to see Lang。 Having an hour to spare before my train left； I took a taxi…cab and drove to his house in Marloes Road； to find which his direction of many years ago used to be； “Walk down Cromwell Road till you drop； then turn to the right！”
I found the house shut up； and the Scotch girl； arriving from the lower regions； informed me that her master had left for Scotland on Tuesday。 I gave my card； asking her to forward it； then called to the girl as she was shutting the door to ask how Lang was。 She replied that he had been unwell； but was much better。 So； perhaps for the last time； I departed from that house with which I used to be so familiar in the old days； filled with such sad thoughts and apprehensions that on my return home I mentioned them to Miss Hector； my secretary。
Perhaps these were due to the drawn； death…suggesting blinds； perhaps to the knowledge that Lang had suffered much from melancholy of late — contrary to the general idea； his was always a nature full of sadness — perhaps to some more subtle reason。 At any rate； it was so。
I have not seen much of Andrew Lang of late years； for the reason that we lived totally different lives in totally different localities。 The last time we met was about a year ago at a meeting of the Dickens Centenary Fund mittee； after which I walked far with him on his homeward way； and we talked as we used to talk in the days when we were so much together。 The time before that was about two years ago； when I dined alone with him and Mrs。 Lang at Marloes Road； and we passed a delightful evening。
Letters； too； have been scarce between us for some years； though I have hundreds of the earlier times。 Here are extracts from one or two of the last which have a melancholy interest now。
October 18； 1911。
Dear Rider； — Thanks for the Hare ＇this refers to my tale of “The Mahatma and the Hare”＇。 。 。 。 I bar chevying hares； but we are all hunted from birth to death by impecunious relations； disease； care； and every horror。 The hare is not hunted half so much or half so endlessly。 However； anyway； I have not chevied a hare since I was nine； and that only on my two little legs； all alone！
Yours ever；
A。 Lang。
If I were the Red…faced Man I’d say that from the beginning all my forbears were hunters； that it got into the blood； and went out of the blood with advancing age； so that perhaps it might go out altogether； though I hardly think it will。 And ask WHO made it so！
By some chance there is a copy of my answer to this letter； also of two subsequent ones which deal with what might have been a business matter。
October 19； 1911。
My dear Andrew； — Yes； I have hinted at this hunting of Man on p。 135； and at a probable reason。 You are right： hunted we are； and by a large pack！ Still I don’t know that this justifies us in hunting other things。 At any rate the idea came to me and I expressed it。 But I might as well have kept it to myself。 I doubt whether the papers will touch the thing： to notice an attack on blood sports might not be popular！
As one grows old； I think the sadness of the world impresses one more and more。 If there is nothing beyond it is indeed a tragedy。 But； thank Heaven！ I can’t think that。 I think it less and less。 I am engaged on writing （for publication AFTER I have walked “the Great White Road”） my reminiscences of my early life in Africa； etc。 It is a sad job。 There before me are the letters from those dear old friends of my youth； Shepstone； Osborn； Clarke and many others； and nearly every one of them is dead！ But I don’t believe that I shall never see them more； indeed I seem to grow nearer to them。
When I was a lad at Scoones’ I had an intimate friend named Sheil。 When I returned from Africa I found that he had bee a Trappist monk。 We corresponded and I went to see him。 （He too is long dead。） In one of his letters I find this sentence written over thirty years ago： “What I wish is that we may all go home together and be together always。”
This exactly expresses my sentiments towards the few for whom I care — dead or living。
Ever your friend；
H。 Rider Haggard。
October 20； 1911。
Dear Rider； — I expect we shall meet our dogs and cats。 They have ghosts！ I don’t much bar fox…hunting： it needs pluck； and the fox； a sportsman himself； only takes his chances and often gets away。 It’s all a matter of thinking。 Scott was a humane man； but devoted to coursing； which I abominate。 Wordsworth never thought of harm in trout…fishing； with fly。 Now I was born to be ruthful to trout； as a kid； and sinned against light； but I could not use the worm。
Why on earth do you keep letters？ I have a very few sealed up； but dare not look on them 。 。 。 。
A little later； either at Charles Longman’s suggestion or with his approval； it occurred to me to try to cheer Lang up and take him out of himself a little by getting him to collaborate； or at any rate to think over collaboration； in another romance。 To this end I wrote to him as follows：
November 10； 1911。
My dear Andrew； — I have e across a scheme we had （about a quarter of a century ago） for collaboration in a novel of Old Kor。
I think