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Eight of these Essays have appeared in Macmillan's Magazine," viz.: "The Ever-Memorable John Hales," A Minute Philosopher," "Andrew Marvell," "Vincent Bourne," "Thomas Gray," "Elizabeth Barrett Browning," "Henry Bradshaw," "The Late Master of Trinity"; two in the Contemporary Review," viz.: " Henry More, the Platonist" and the "Poetry of Keble"; one in the "National Review," "Christina Rossetti"; and one in the "New Review," the "Poetry of Edmund Gosse." My acknowledgments and thanks are due to the proprietors and editors of these periodicals for the leave kindly accorded me to republish them. The Study, " William Blake," is now printed for the first time.

I desire also to record my gratitude to F. E. B. Duff, Esq., of King's College, Cambridge, who has revised the book throughout, and made many valuable suggestions.

THE EVER-MEMORABLE

JOHN HALES

HE churchyard at Eton is a triangular piece

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of ground, converging into a sharp remote angle, bordered on one side by the Long Walk, and screened from it by heavy iron railings. the second side it is skirted and overlooked by tall irregular houses, and on the third side by the deep buttressed recesses of the chapel, venerable with ivy and mouldering grey stone.

It is a strangely quiet place in the midst of bustling life; the grumbling of waggons in the road, the hoarse calling of the jackdaws, awkwardly fluttering about old red-tiled roofs, the cracked clanging of the college clock, the voices of boys from the street, fall faintly on the ear: besides, it has all the beauty of a deserted place, for it is many years since it has been used for a burialground: the grass is long and rank, the cypresses and yews grow luxuriantly out of unknown vaults, and push through broken rails; the gravestones slant and crumble; moss grows into the letters of forgotten names, and creepers embrace and

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embower monumental urns; here and there are heaps of old carven, crumbling stones; on early summer mornings a resident thrush stirs the silence with flute-notes marvellously clear; and on winter evenings when wet, boisterous winds roll steadily up, and the tall chapel windows flame, the organ's voice is blown about the winding overgrown paths, and the memorials of the dead.

Just inside the gate, visible from the road among the dark evergreens, stands a tall, conspicuous altar-tomb, conspicuous more for the miserable way in which a stately monument has been handled, than for its present glories. It has been patched and slobbered up with grey stucco; and the inscription scratched on the surface is three-quarters obliterated. Let into the sides are the grey stone panels of the older tomb, sculptured with quaint emblems of life and death, a mattock and an uncouth heap of bones, an hourglass and a skull, a pot of roses and lily-flowers— such is the monument of one of Eton's gentlest servants and sons. "I ordain," runs the quaint conclusion of his will, "that at the time of the next evensong after my departure (if conveniently it may be), my body be laid in the church-yard of the town of Eton (if I chance to die there), as near as may be [a strangely pathetic touch of love from the childless philosopher, the friend of courtiers and divines], to the body of my little

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