honourable future is before the man who could write such a book as this is in spite of all defects.’ The reviewer adds later in a reprint of this essay, ‘Mr. Vaughan’s death does not, I think, render it necessary for me to alter any of the opinions expressed here, and least of all that in the last sentence, fulfilled now more perfectly than I could have foreseen.’ With the mention of Charles Kingsley’s name we are reminded of others of the same school of thought, and therefore the following comparison in an article in the _Eclectic Review_ (November, 1861) may prove interesting. The reader must judge of its truth. ‘While Robertson of Brighton,’ says the reviewer, ‘was preaching his sermons, and Archer Butler was preparing his Lectures on Philosophy, Alfred Vaughan about the same age, but younger than either, was accumulating material for, and putting into shape, the “Hours with the Mystics.” He died within a year or two of their departure, and still nearer to the period of youth than those extraordinary men. His name suggests their names to the mind—all victims to the fatal thirty-four and thirty-seven. He had not the wonderful touch of Robertson’s “vanished hand”; he had not the tenacity of muscle and fibre of Archer Butler; but he combined many of the characteristics of both, and added that which gave individuality to his genius. He had not the fine subtle sense of insight possessed by Robertson; he had not the rapid and comprehensive power of Butler. They again had not his large and generous culture.’ More of such favourable criticisms and kindly words from men of learning might be quoted, but we forbear. The task of referring to such sentiments is not unnaturally attractive to the son of such a man; but it is simply desired to put forward this book once again on its own merits, in the hope that there are still many who will rightly appreciate the labour and genius to which it bears witness. About the work itself it will be necessary to say only a few words.