work was somehow made or found. Thus, during the last winter, as many as thirty at a time were employed by him in road-making. Endless similar charities might be recorded, and still more were done in secret and unknown; but these would wholly fail to represent “that best portion of a good man’s life, his little nameless unremembered acts of kindness and of love.” His utter unselfishness and his quick power of sympathy endeared him to an ever-widening circle of friends. He never lost sight of any he had known, and all, whether rich or poor, knew that, if content with simple fare, they would be welcome visitors at the Vicarage. During the last ten years of his life, the greatest of earthly privations was sent him. There was a gradual failure of sight, ending in total blindness. None who knew him even slightly can have failed to admire the serenity and cheerfulness with which this loss was borne. Like Milton, he “bated not a jot of heart or hope, but still bore up and steered right onward . . . content, though blind.” He never would admit that it was to him a heavy trial, though to a man of his independent character and restless energy it must have been a daily thorn in the flesh. Thanks to the guidance of loving hands, he was able to continue to the last his pastoral visits, and would fearlessly mount the narrowest and steepest stairs of cottages, wherever the sick or dying needed his ministrations. His sermons and lectures seemed almost to gain in power by his concentration of thought and abstraction from objects of sense. He would not rarely take (I had almost written “read”) the whole of the Morning Service, including the Psalms and the Holy Communion. Even in his eightieth year his memory was hardly impaired, and he would give chapter and verse for text after text quoted in his sermons. His knowledge of the Bible was wonderful; it was as if he had it photographed on his heart. The last sermon, preached only nine days before his death, was clear, stirring, and energetic, and bore no trace of flagging powers. His life was one of the many golden threads that run through the variegated warp of England’s Church history, and show the continuity of her ministry. Though severed by five centuries, he is the direct lineal descendant of Chaucer’s “poure Persoun of a toun,” and there is scarce a word in that marvellous portraiture that might not have been written of Francis Storr, for “Christes lore, and his apostles twelve, He taughte, but first he folwede it himselve.” In Memoriam. FRANCIS STORR. _From the_ RECORD, _March_ 2_nd_, 1888.