Charles Kingsley in the Saddle. 55 



ride if he so chooses ; " and," adds he, " I am vain enough 

 to be glad that you know it." 



The poet, the sportsman, and next the parish priest. He 

 says and can we not see the tightened lines of his deter- 

 mined mouth, and bushy brows over kind iron-grey eyes the 

 while ? 



" It is past two now, and I have four old women to read 

 to at three, and an old man to bury at four, and I think on 

 the whole that you will respect me the more for going home 

 and doing my duty. That I should like to see this fox 

 fairly killed or even fairly lost I deny not. That I should 

 like it as much as I can like any earthly and outward thing 

 I deny not. But sugar to one's bread and butter is not 

 good; and if my Winter Garden represent the bread and 

 butter, then will fox-hunting stand to it in the relation of 

 superfluous and unwholesome sugar; so farewell, and long 

 may your noble sport prosper." 



Shocking sentiments these, no doubt, to many estimable 

 people. But the peasants and farmers around Eversley in 

 their hearts will as long as they live think of Kingsley as 

 their genial friend and wise counsellor, who in both letter 

 and spirit ever fulfilled his sacred trust. 



The poet, sportsman, parish priest, and, lastly, the philo- 

 sophic naturalist. For the mare's head is at length turned 

 homewards, and though she blunders at every step among 

 the fir stems, fetlock deep in peat, and jumping the "un- 

 canny gripes" at every third stride, he talks of "Aira 

 caespitosa, most stately and most variable of British grasses ;" 

 of gravel, mould, and heather; of decent public buildings, 

 Scotch firs, and painters ; hares, cattle, and turf-parers ; 

 Snowdon in the glacial era, the CEon, James the First and 

 his admired hero Raleigh ; Goethe's Helena, green comets' 

 tails, Australian bushmen, and Celtic trackways; and so 



