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Updated: June 15, 2025
Smythe's letter probably passed under my nose on its way to lose three weeks traveling to America and back, and gave me a whiff of its contents as it went along. Letters often act like that. Next incident. In the following month March I was in America. I spent a Sunday at Irvington-on-the-Hudson with Mr. John Brisben Walker, of the Cosmopolitan magazine.
Conyers Smythe's fine shoulders in that figure nor the jaunty carriage of his massive head. Now he drew near, and the light of the porch-lamp fell upon him. The coachman caught the arm of his stable-boy, who was standing next to him a rather Jewish-looking Mashona. 'Look! look! he cried. They both watched the churchgoer as he passed up the steps. Then he was gone from their view.
Indeed it seemed to Agassiz that all the glacial agency in Smythe's Channel, the trend of the furrows, the worn surfaces whereon they were to be found, and the steepness of southern exposures as compared with the more rounded opposite slopes, pointed to the same conclusion. On the third of April Agassiz left with regret this region of ocean and mountain, glacier, snow-field, and forest.
There did seem something a trifle weird about leaving the little man alone among those dead servants, who were coming to life as the door closed. Six steps down from Smythe's landing the man in shirt sleeves was doing something with a pail.
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