IN MEMORIAM: ALFRED NUTT (1856-1910).
BY EDWARD CLODD.
"The free man," says Spinoza, "thinks of nothing less than of death, and his wisdom is meditation not of death but of life." When the thoughts of such an one dwell on the inevitable, his desire is that it should be without warning; nevertheless, the sudden death of a friend comes as a shock, the greater when memory recalls regrets,—neglect of chances of more frequent intercourse where interest in things that endure is common,—and all else that is unavailing.
So, when the news from Melun reached London that in striving to rescue an invalid son, who, through the shying of his horse, had been thrown into the Seine, Alfred Nutt had been swept away by the current, his friends were stunned as with a blow dealt by an unseen hand. Only six days before his tragic end our President received a letter from him in which, after touching in bright vein on topics of the day, he spoke cheerfully about his health, which, for some months past, had not been good, compelling him to take a holiday. "I am feeling better," he said, "and hope that a quiet summer in the open air will give me back my full working powers. I am still unequal to any serious or prolonged effort. I am amusing myself at present with annotating Arnold's Study of Celtic Literature. Whether anything will come of it I don't know."
My friendship with Alfred Nutt dates from the formation of the Folk-Lore Society in 1878, and, although our opportunities of intercourse were rare and fitful, I saw enough of him to warrant a hearty tribute to his genial nature, and to an enthusiasm about everything connected with folklore, which, with equipment of learning that few among us possess, made his services to our Society of special and abiding value. He was not only of the rare species of author-publisher; he was of the yet more rare species of scholar-publisher. In many ways, notably in the format of the series of the very scarce Tudor Translations, the fortunate owners of which treasure them for their beauty,
