_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 acknowledgements 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 The churchyard at Eton is a triangular piece of ground, converging into a sharp remote angle, bordered on one side by the Long Walk, and screened from it by heavy iron railings. On 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 burial-ground: 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 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.