of a wonderful life we shall not strictly limit ourselves to the volumes before us, but shall also use unpublished materials.

What the public knew about Charles Kingsley was in inverse ratio to the matters on which he

really concentrated himself. What the public knew best was the novel and the essay and the poem. His Hypatia was his best work, in his own judgment. He had studied his period thoroughly, and he said that, without vanity, he could have taught Gibbon a few things on that particular period. He always felt that his works did not do him justice; that they were merely prolusions for a greater work; that he could do something better than he had done. He lived liberally, in some ways expensively, and he wrote for money, which is hardly the most favourable circumstance for the cultivation of original powers. He used to vindicate the writing for money as if with a sort of feeling that it required vindication. But theology was his darling pursuit. He especially rejoiced in the Westminster canonry, because it promised to set him free from book - making to sermon-writing. He fully appreciated his position at Westminster, and threw his whole soul into it. But, properly speaking, each of his books was religious, not so much in dealing with religious subjects, as dealing with secular subjects religiously. The successive volumes of sermons which he threw off

were a great power in their way. They were worth to him the average income of a benefice. But what was nearest to his heart was their influence for good in the world. People who objected on principle to all sermons read Charles Kingsley's. In early days he was politically a Chartist, and theologically he had a natural affinity for heterodoxy and liberalism. But he eventually became something like a Tory, and was also perfectly orthodox. He would indulge sometimes in a vein of daring speculation; and Mr. Malcolm MacColl, in one of his books, says latterly he took up strongly the doctrine of Purgatory, which was odd for such a thorough anti-Romanist as he always professed to be. But his whole soul was bent in doing good, and doing it in his own way. In a remarkable way he became all things to all men. To all outward seeming he was thoroughly a man of the world; all mere clericalism he simply abhorred; he knew society in all phases, thoroughly enjoyed life and fun, had a tidy knowledge of vintages,' and would make himself thoroughly at home with all sorts and conditions of men. But he never lost sight of the office of a priest and teacher. His appearances at Westminster Abbey were very striking, and indicated how intense was his eagerness in his work-an intensity which shortened his days.

The great business and effort of his life, of which we see the outcome in all he said or did, was that he

himself, Charles Kingsley, should not be below the level of what he taught; he exercised himself to be without offence before God and man; he exemplified the lines which he wrote for his niece, Mrs. Theodore Waldron

'Be good, and let who will be clever;

Do noble deeds, not dream them all day long :
And so make life, death, and that vast for ever,
One grand sweet song.'

What was very remarkable in the case of this imperious high-spirited man was his deep humility and self-abasement, in this way much resembling the late John Keble. Instances abound of his exercising the rarest generosity and kindness. We might give various little anecdotes respecting him supplementary to those which we find in these volumes. Perrot, the Dartmoor guide, was telling us of a day's fishing he had with him. Kingsley reckoned that Perrot and others had a better time of it than himself; he had so much money to earn and consequently so much work to do. The real holiday days for fishing were only so many in the year. Two young ladies belated on Dartmoor, going into Prince's Town, were alarmed by the rapid strides of a man gaining fast upon them in the darkness. They quickened their pace, but were outstripped. 'Don't be afraid, young ladies,' exclaimed a stammering voice, 'I am a clergyman, and my name is Charles Kingsley, and I will take you

safely home.' The great thing that struck you at once with Charles Kingsley was the eye. It was peculiarly restless and piercing. The rapid glance which he threw from his pulpit seemed in a moment to gather in everyone before him. It was an eye which was unsatisfied with seeing. His love and knowledge of Nature were immense. He longed to be at the heart of everything. Night and day the active eyes and the keen intellect were busy. He was continually watching the starry heavens; he watched cloudland with a passionate love, and would say, using Luther's phrase, that to him the winged cloud was a living creature, with hands and feet. He gloried in garden and stream, and firs of the heath. His lot being cast in a remote village, he knew that he must make his home either a prison or a paradise; he made it a paradise, and in early life he found his Eve. And his intense love reminds us of the great poetic affections made memorable in literature, such as those for Laura or Beatrice. But amid all the elements of rest and repose around him, the man himself could not rest; it was not in him. When a man having finished his ordinary work would think of repose, Charles Kingsley would shake himself as a lion, gather all his energies together, and sit down to work which taxed them to the full.

He was a man who felt and expressed himself

strongly. He had tremendous likes and dislikes. He used to call Bulwer Lytton by the name of Mephistopheles. One of the greatest luminaries of the High Church party he denominated 'a wind-bag.' On the other hand, he had an immense respect for John Henry Newman, the first dialectician of our age, who forensically worsted him by his Apologia. Nothing, however, was more characteristic of Kingsley than his general fairness of mind, and his desire to do justice to all.

He loved to travel everywhere. His imagination was kindled by the thoughts of the gorgeous western world, and he went out to the beautiful islands which had furnished so much towards his English epical story, Westward Ho! Then, like many other English clergymen, he was strongly fascinated by the North Pacific Railway. He, too, must see the Rocky Mountains, and the Yosemite Valley, and the wonders of California. Wales and the western counties of England he knew thoroughly well. Lately we were staying at an inn in the heart of the Welsh mountains, which he has celebrated both in prose and verse, and where a whole cluster of traditions belongs to him.

And yet everywhere and all times his true centre was in his parish and his home. However far he travelled, there was the silken chain which drew him homewards. He worked' Eversley, as a parson