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This is peculiarly the source of HUMAN strength." "Better not to fall." "Ah! you are too late from Utopia. But " We were interrupted; a voice at my elbow a soft, clear, insinuating voice addressed my companion: "Ah, Monsieur Kingsley, I rejoice to see you." Kingsley gave me a single look, which said everything, as he turned to meet the new-comer. The latter continued:
Of all men who have written so little verse during as long a life in our time, Kingsley is probably the best poet. The Saint's Tragedy is a little "viewy" and fluent. But in Andromeda he has written the very best English hexameters ever produced, and perhaps the only ones in which that alien or rebel takes on at least the semblance of a loyal subject to the English tongue.
Light and darkness were in her face at once. Her eyes were bright, her brows became knitted, her foot tapped the floor. Of course it was all make-believe, this possibility, but it seemed too wonderful to think of slavery abolished, and through her; and Kingsley Bey, the renegade Englishman, the disgrace to his country, blotted out.
Thereupon, Dicky told the Khedive the whole story, and not in years had Ismail's face shown such abandon of humour. "By the will of God, but it shall be!" he said. "She shall marry Kingsley Bey, and he shall go free." "But not till she has seen him and mourned over him in his cell, with the mud floor and the balass of water." The Khedive laughed outright and swore in French.
At this time, the late Earl of Pembroke, the joint author with Dr. Kingsley of "South Sea Bubbles," was in Apia Harbour in his schooner yacht Albatross, and every day we expected to see the French Pacific Squadron steam into the port and capture the numerous German ships then laying at anchor there.
The Pasha responded, followed by his men, but presently turned and, before Dicky could intervene for he wanted Kingsley to make his own revelation said courteously: "May the truth of Allah be with you, I will await you at the boat, Kingsley Bey." Dicky did not turn round, but, with a sharp exclamation of profanity, drew Foulik Pasha on his imbecile way.
The description of the town itself that follows might apply tolerably well to a number of such fishing-ports in the West Country; but Kingsley is most clearly not speaking of Clovelly, and he introduces Cornish names. That corner of North Devon must be content with figuring in Westward-Ho! and not claim Two Years Ago.
"Oh, nobody tells anything in Egypt, unless he's kourbashed or thumb-screwed. It's safer to tell nothing, you know." "Cousin! I didn't know there were Kingsleys in that family. What reason could the Consul have for hiding the relationship?" "Well, I don't know, you must ask Kingsley. Flamboyant and garrulous as he is, he probably won't tell you that."
Grenfell had dreamed of a romantic and adventurous career. Now he realized that these ambitions must give place to a sedate profession that would earn him a living and in which he would be contented. All of his people had been literary workers, educators, clergymen, or officers in the army or navy. There was Charles Kingsley and "Westward Ho."
But when all this is allowed, no one will seriously rank Kingsley, in the really literary sense, on the level of Carlyle or Ruskin, Tennyson or Browning, Dickens or Thackeray: and if such a place cannot be given to him, it can be given even less to his lusty and pleasant friend, Tom Hughes, whose personality floats towards the frankness of the Boy's Own Paper; or to his deep, suggestive metaphysical friend Maurice, who floats rather towards The Hibbert Journal.
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