master of his work unless he can afford to jest about it; and that a frolicsome habit of mind is rather a token of deep, genial, and superabundant vitality, than of a shallow and narrow nature, which can only be earnest and attentive by conscious and serious efforts.”[3] There were few circles of society where Frank Oates was not welcome; and once received in any of them, a place was ever after reserved for him in their midst. Whatever raciness or originality of character was to be met with where his lot for the time was cast, he failed not to find it out; and he eagerly availed himself of every opportunity which enabled him to see life in its less conventional aspects. A certain chivalry endeared him to the weak, his fearlessness attached to him the strong, and no act of kindness was ever lost upon or forgotten by him. He wandered far afield; but at home or abroad it ever was the same with him, and he had friends, go where he would: for the intellect, in his case, never overruled the affections; and perhaps it has fallen to the lot of few, dying at his comparatively early age, to leave so many sorrowing hearts behind them. And now, but one word further. The late Charles Kingsley--again to quote his writings, still in the same connexion as before, with reference, that is, to his friend, Charles Mansfield, traveller, ornithologist, and devotee of science, the posthumous writer above referred to--has said some touching words, which the editor of these pages, too partial, it may be, in his estimate of the deceased, would fain transcribe, and apply to the subject of the present memoir. “He was one of those rare spirits,” writes Charles Kingsley,[4] “to whom this life and this world have been, as far as human minds can judge, little beyond a schoolhouse for some nobler life and world to come. Cut off at the very climacteric of his years, just as he was beginning to give the world evidence of his faculties, and just as he had acquired the power of using them in an orderly and practical method, he has left little behind but the _disjecta membra philosophi_.... Never have I met a human being to whom as clearly as to him the thing which seemed right was a thing to be done forthwith, at all hazards, and at any sacrifice.... He had gathered round him [ere he died], friends, both men and women, who looked on him with a love such as might be inspired by some being from a higher world.... Oh, fairest of souls!” concludes the writer, “Happy those who knew thee in this life! Happier those who will know thee in the life to come!” C. G. O. [Illustration: “Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, For faithful in death, his mute favourite attended.” --SCOTT. _See page 265._] CONTENTS. CHAPTER I.