hero Philip in the "Bothie," and it was partly the visit paid by Tom Arnold. and his friend John Campbell Shairp, afterwards Principal Shairp of St. Andrew's, to Clough's reading party at Drumnadrochit in 1845, and their report of incidents which had happened to them on their way along the shores of Loch Ericht, which suggested the scheme of the "Bothie." One of the halfdozen short poems of Clough which have entered permanently into literature Qui laborat orat-was found by my father one morning on the table of his bachelor lodgings in Mount Street, after Clough had spent the night on a shake-up in his sitting-room, had breakfasted and gone off early-leaving the poem behind him as payment for the night's entertainment. In one of Clough's letters to New Zealand I find-"Say not the struggle naught availeth"-another of the half-dozen-written out by him; and the original copy-tibi primo confisum, of the graceful though unequal verses, "A London Idyll." The little volume. of miscellaneous poems, called Ambarvalia, and the "Bothie of Tober-naVuolich" were sent out to New Zealand by Clough, at the same moment that Matt was sending his brother the Poems by A.

Clough writes from Liverpool in February 1849, having just received Matt's volume

At last our own Matt's book! Read mine first, my child, if our volumes go forth together. Otherwise you won't read mineAmbarvalia-at any rate, at all. Froude

also has published a new book of religious biography, auto or otherwise, (The Nemesis of Faith) and therewithal resigns his Fellowship. But the Rector (of Exeter) talks of not accepting the resignation, but having an expulsion-fire- and - fagot fashion. Quo usque?

But when the books arrive, my father writes to his sister with affectionate welcome indeed of the Poems by A, but with enthusiasm of the "Bothie."

It greatly surpasses my expectations! It is on the whole a noble poem, well held together, clear, full of purpose, and full of promise. With joy I see the old fellow bestirring himself "awakening like a strong man out of sleep and shaking his invincible locks"; and if he remains true and works, I think

there is nothing too high or too great to be expected from him.

"True," and a worker, Clough remained to the last hours of his short life. But in spite of a happy marriage, the burden and perplexity of philosophic thought, together with the strain of failing health, checked, before long, the strong poetic impulse shown in the "Bothie," its buoyant delight in natural beauty, and in the simplicities of human feeling and passion. The "music" of his "rustic flute"

Kept not for long its happy, country tone;

Lost it too soon, and learnt a stormy note Of men contention-tost, of men who groan.

The poet of the "Bothie" becomes the poet of "Dipsychus," "Easter Day,' and the "Amours de Voyage"; and the young republican who writes in triumph. -all humorous joy and animation-to my father, from the Paris of '48, which has just seen the overthrow of Louis Philippe, says, a year later-February 24, 1849

To-day, my dear brother republican, is the glorious anniversary of '48, whereof what shall I now say? Put not your trust in republics, nor in any constitution of man! God be praised for the downfall of Louis Philippe. This with a faint feeble echo of that loud last year's scream of A bas Guizot!" seems to be the sum total. Or are we to salute the rising sun, with "Vive l'Empereur!" and the green liveries? President for life I think they'll make him, and then begin to tire of him. Meanwhile the Great Powers are to restore the Pope, and crush the renascent Roman Republic, of which Joseph Mazzini has just been declared. a citizen!

A few months later, the writer-at Rome "was in at the death" of this same Roman Republic, listening to the French bombardment in bitterness of soul. He writes several letters to my father in the very thick of the fighting. These have already been published in Mrs. Clough's memoir of her husband. But in another letter, written partly after his return home, which has remained unprinted, I find:

I saw the French enter.-Unto this has come our grand Lib. Eq. and Frat. revolution! And then I went to Naples and home. I am full of admiration for Mazzini. But on the whole-"Farewell Politics!".

utterly! What can I do? Study is much more to the purpose.

So in disillusion and disappointment, "Citizen Clough" leaving Oxford and politics behind him, settled down to educational work in London, married, and became the happy father of children, wrote much that was remarkable, and will be long read-whether it be poetry or no-by those who find perennial attraction in the lesser-known ways of literature and thought, and at last closed his short life at Florence in 1862, at the age of forty-one, leaving an indelible memory in the hearts of those who had talked and lived with him.

To a boon southern country he is fled,
And now in happier air,
Wandering with the Great Mother's train
divine

(And purer or more subtle soul than thee, I trow the mighty Mother doth not see) Within a folding of the Apennine,

Thou hearest the immortal chants of old!

But I remember him, in an English setting, and on the slopes of English hills. In the year 1858, as a child of seven, I was an inmate of a little school kept at Ambleside, by Miss Anne Clough, the poet's sister, afterwards the well-known head of Newnham College, Cambridge, and wisest leader in the cause of women. It was a small dayschool for Ambleside children of all ranks, and I was one of two boarders, spending my Sundays often at Fox How. I can recall one or two golden days, at long intervals, when my father came for me, with "Mr. Clough," and the two • old friends, who, after nine years' separation, had recently met again, walked up the Sweden Bridge lane into the heart of Scandale Fell, while I, paying no more attention to them, than they-after a first ten minutes-did to me, went wandering, and skipping, and dreaming by myself. In those days every rock along the mountain lane, every boggy patch, every stretch of silken, flower-sown grass, every bend of the wild stream, and all its sounds, whether it chattered gently over stony shallows, or leaped full-throated into deep pools, swimming with foam-were to me the never-ending joys of a "land of pure delight." Should I find a ripe wild strawberry in a patch

under a particular rock I knew by heart? -or the first Grass of Parnassus, or the bog auricula, or streaming cotton-plant, amid a stretch of wet moss ahead? I might quite safely explore these enchanted spots under male eyes, since they took no account, mercifully, of a child's boots and stockings - male tongues besides being safely busy with books and politics. Was that a dipper, rising and falling along the stream, orpositively a fat brown trout in hiding under that shady bank?-or that a buzzard, hovering overhead. Such hopes and doubts kept a child's heart and eyes as quick and busy as the "beck" itself. It was a point of honor with me to get to Sweden Bridge—a rough crossing for the shepherds and sheep, near the head of the valley-before my companions; and I would sit dangling my feet over the unprotected edge of its grass-grown arch, blissfully conscious on a summer day of the warm stretches of golden fell folding in the stream, the sheep, the circling hawks, the stony path that wound up and up to regions beyond the ken of thought; and of myself, queening it there on the weather-worn keystone of the bridge, dissolved in the mere physical joy of each contented sense: the sun on my cotton dress, the scents from grass and moss, the marvelous rush of cloud-shadow along the fells, the brilliant browns and blues in the water, the little white stones on its tiny beaches, or the purples of the bigger rocks, whether in the stream or on the mountain-side. How did they come there those big rocks? I puzzled my head about them a good deal, especially as my father, in the walks we had to ourselves, would sometimes try and teach me a little geology.

I have used the words "physical joy," because, although such passionate pleasure in natural things as has been my constant Helper (in the sense of the Greek Erixovpoc) through life, has connected itself no doubt, in process of time, with various intimate beliefs, philosophic or religious, as to the Beauty which is Truth, and therewith the only conceivable key to man's experience, yet I could not myself indorse the famous contrast in Wordsworth's "Tintern Abbey," between the "haunting passion"

of youth's delight in Nature, and the more complex feeling of later years, when Nature takes an aspect colored by our own moods and memories, when our sorrows and reflections enter so much into what we feel about the "bright and intricate device" of earth and her seasons, that "in our life alone doth Nature live." No one can answer for the changing moods that the future, long or short, may bring with it. But so far, I am inclined to think of this quick, intense pleasure in natural things, which I notice in myself and others, as something involuntary and inbred; independent-often selfishly independentof the real human experience. I have been sometimes ashamed-pricked even with self-contempt to remember how in the course of some tragic or sorrowful hours, concerning myself, or others of great account to me, I could not help observing some change in the clouds, some effect of color in the garden, some picture on the wall, which pleased me even-for the moment-intensely. The impression would be gone, perhaps, as soon as felt, rebuked by something like a flash of remorse. But it was not in my power to prevent its recurrence. And the delight in natural things-colors, forms, scents-when there was nothing to restrain or hamper it, has often been a kind of intoxication, in which thought and consciousness seemed suspended

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as though of hemlock I had drunk." Wordsworth has of course expressed it constantly, though increasingly, as life went on, in combination with a too facile pantheistic philosophy. But it is my belief that it survived in him in its primitive form, almost to the end.

The best and noblest people I have known have been, on the whole-except in first youth without this correspondence between some constant pleasuresense in the mind, and natural beauty. It cannot therefore be anything to be proud of. But it is certainly something to be glad of "amid the chances and changes of this mortal life"; it is one of the joys "in widest commonalty spread" -and that may last longest. It is therefore surely to be encouraged both in oneself, and in children; and that, although I have often felt that there is something inhuman, or infrahuman in

it, as though the earth-gods in us all— Pan, or Demeter-laid ghostly hands again for a space, upon the soul and sense that nobler or sadder faiths have ravished from them.

In these Westmorland walks, however, my father had sometimes another companion-a frequent visitor at Fox How, where he was almost another son to my grandmother, and an elder brother to her children. How shall one ever make the later generation understand the charm of Arthur Stanley? There are many-very many—still living, in whom the sense of it leaps up, at the very mention of his name. But for those who never saw him, who are still in their twenties and thirties, what shall I say? That he was the son of a Bishop of Norwich, and a member of the old Cheshire family of the Stanleys of Alderley, that he was a Rugby boy and a devoted pupil of Arnold, whose Life he wrote, so that it stands out among the biographies of the century, not only for its literary merit, but for its wide and varied influence on feeling and opinion; that he was an Oxford tutor and Professor all through the great struggle of Liberal thought against the reactionary influences let loose by Newman and the Tractarian movement; that, as Regius Professor at Oxford, and Canon of Canterbury, if he added little to learning, or research, he at least kept alive-by his power of turning all he knew into image and color-that great "art" of history which the Dryasdusts so willingly let die; that as Dean of Westminster, he was still the life and soul of all the Liberalism in the church, still the same generous friend and champion of all the spiritually oppressed that he had ever been? None of the old "causes" beloved of his youth could ever have said of him as of So many others:

Just for a handful of silver he left us Just for a riband to stick in his coat―

He was no doubt the friend of kings and princes and keenly conscious always of things long-descended, with picturesque or heroic associations. But it was he who invited Colenso to preach in the Abbey after his excommunication by the fanatical and now forgotten Bishop of Cape Town; it was he who

brought about that famous Communion of the Revisers in the Abbey, where the Unitarian received the Sacrament of Christ's death, beside the Wesleyan and the Anglican, and who bore with unflinching courage the idle tumult which followed; it was he too who first took special pains to open the historical Abbey to working-men, and to give them an insight into the meaning of its meaning of its treasures. He was not a social reformer in the modern sense; that was not his business. But his unfailing power of seeing and pouncing upon the interesting -the dramatic-in any human lot, soon brought him into relation with men of callings and types the most different from his own; and for the rest he fulfilled to perfection that hard duty "the duty to our equals," on which Mr. Jowett once preached a caustic and suggestive sermon. But for him John Richard Green would have abandoned history, and student after student, heretic after heretic, found in him the man who eagerly understood them, and chivalrously fought for them.

And then, what a joy he was to the eye! His small spare figure, miraculously light, his delicate face of tinted ivory-only that ivory is not sensitive and subtle, and incredibly expressive, as were the features of the little Dean; the eager thin-lipped mouth, varying with every shade of feeling in the innocent great soul behind it; the clear eyes of china-blue; the glistening white hair, still with the wave and spring of youth in it; the slender legs, and Dean's dress, which becomes all but the portly, with, on festal occasions, the red ribbon of the Bath crossing the mercurial frame:there are still a few pictures and photographs by which these characteristics are dimly recalled to those at least who knew the living man. To my father, who called him "Arthur," and to all the Fox How circle he was the most faithful of friends, though no doubt my father's conversion to Catholicism to some extent, in later years, separated him from Stanley. But not long ago I unfolded a letter from Stanley to "dearest Tom," written by Stanley on the night before my father left England for New Zealand in 1847, and cherished by its recipient all his life. In these lines of profound

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feeling and farewell, addressed to "my earliest, dearest, and best of pupils, Stanley gave free voice to his love both for the father and the son. He describes. how, in 1842, when he returned to Oxford lonely and heart-broken, in the October term after the sudden death of Arnold of Rugby, his guide and hero, the companionship and affection of Arnold's favorite son, then an undergraduate in the college of which Stanley was fellow and tutor, had made the solace of his life; and he pours into his good wishes for "Tom's" success and happiness on the other side of the world, a yearning personal note, which was perhaps sometimes lacking in the muchsurrounded, much-courted Dean of later life. It was not that Arthur Stanley, any more than Matthew Arnold, ever became a worldling in the ordinary sense. But "the world" asks too much of such men as Stanley. It heaps all its honors and all its tasks upon them, and without some slight stiffening of its substance the exquisite instrument cannot meet the strain.

Mr. Hughes always strongly denied that the that the "George Arthur" of Tom Brown's School Days had anything whatever to do with Arthur Stanley. But I should like to believe that some tradition of Stanley's school-days, still surviving when "Tom Hughes" went to Rugby, had entered at least into the well-known scene where Arthur breaks down in construing the last address of Helen to the dead Hector, in class. Stanley's memory indeed was alive with the great things or the picturesque detail of literature and history, no less than with the humorous or striking things of contemporary life. And in later life it was not only for the grown-up that he used these gifts of his. As a child at Fox How I remember them well,-the fascination and terror with which they held one. To listen to him quoting Shakespeare or Scott or Macaulay was fascination to find his eye fixed on one, and his slender finger darting towards one, as he asked a sudden historical question "Where did Edward the First die?" "Where was the Black Prince buried?"-was terror-lest, at seven years old, one should not be able to play up. I remember a particular visit of his