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Updated: June 22, 2025
I speculated, as one or two specially reckless riders dashed past me, on what the chance would be of making a spring at the bridle of a horse going half as fast again as theirs, and bringing him gracefully on to his knees. I didn't like the idea. And yet had not a fellow done it in one of Kingsley's novels, and another in one of Lever's? At last I screwed myself up to it.
Yet thousands of men in these days who admit the force of these objections continue, in spite of them, to pray. Huxley, the foremost of 'agnostics, speaks with the utmost respect of his friend Charles Kingsley's conviction from experience of the efficacy of prayer.
We must do all we can, and, of course, we'll save his life ah, I'm sure you wouldn't exact the fullest penalty on him!" Dicky was more than wily; he was something wicked. The suggestion of danger to Kingsley's life had made her wince, and he had added another little barbed arrow to keep the first company. The cause was a good one.
But it CAN'T be true! The other day they were speaking of Kingsley's pamphlet, 'Cheap clothes and nasty, and one lady said that was quite an evil of the past, that the difficulty nowadays was to get things at reasonable prices.
But if he could deepen the roots of this comedy for Kingsley's benefit and for the lady's it was his duty so to do. "Of course," he made haste to add, "you cannot be expected to feel sympathy for him. In your eyes, he is a criminal. He had a long innings, and made a mint of money.
'Kingsley's At Last had revived his interest in them; and though Kingsley had long been dead, his memory was fresh among all who knew him. The diary which Froude kept during this journey has been preserved, and I am enabled to make a few extracts from it.
I have a great deal of time at my disposal, and have become weary of the amusements of society and of the merely superficial character of my studies hitherto. The exercises to which I had the good fortune to listen at Miss Kingsley's the other evening were almost a revelation to me.
The father whose little girl desired to read for herself the stories of Greece he had told her put into her hands Bulfinch's "Age of Fable"; he could not, as can fathers to-day, give her Kingsley's rendering, or Hawthorne's, or Miss Josephine Preston Peabody's. Like the father of Aurora Leigh, "He wrapt his little daughter in his large Man's doublet, careless did it fit or no."
Let him that is without sin among you cast the first stone, whether at Hypatia or Pelagia, Cyril or Philammon. Two Years Ago Kingsley's "Two Years Ago" has been said by his son to be the only novel, pure and simple, that ever came from the pen of the famous writer, Published in 1857, it was begun two years earlier while staying at Bideford.
On a different level, one may say as much about books so unlike each other, as those of Poe and of Sir Thomas Browne, of Swift and of Charles Lamb. There are, again, other books which caused this happy emotion of wonder, when first perused, long since, but which do so no longer. I am not much surprised to find Charles Kingsley's novels among them. In the case of Dr.
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