and very beneficial. =Henry Kingsley (1830-1876)=, a younger brother of Charles, wrote many novels and romances, three of them memorable. "Geoffrey Hamlyn" is popular as the best novel of Australian life. To Australia he had gone to make his fortune at the diggings. He did not make a fortune, but joined the colonial mounted police instead. Compelled by his office to attend an execution, he threw up the post in disgust, and returned to England to find his brother installed as Vicar of Eversley and on the high road to fame. Little wonder that he attempted to emulate him, and he succeeded. Never, surely, has literature produced two brothers so remarkable, and at the same time so different. Both gave us energetic heroes, and loved manliness. In Charles Kingsley, however, the novelist was always largely subordinated to the preacher. In Henry there was nothing of the preacher whatever. "Geoffrey Hamlyn," "Ravenshoe" and "The Hillyars and The Burtons," are all forcible, effective works, and they have secured generous praise and appreciation from many a literary colleague. But Henry was a bit of a ne'er-do-well, and so his personality has been carefully screened from the public. His name is not even mentioned in Charles Kingsley's biography. Sir Edwin Arnold, however, who knew him at Oxford, and Mrs Thackeray Ritchie, who knew him towards the end of his life, testify to certain delightful qualities of mind and heart which peculiarly appealed to them.[8] A writer not less successful than Charles Kingsley, but in no way comparable as a man, was =Edward Bulwer Lytton (1803-1873)=, Baron Lytton, who was born in London, and created no small sensation in 1828 by the publication of "Pelham." This was followed by a long list of novels of infinite variety. Some dealt with the preternatural like "Zanoni," and others with history, psychology, and ethics. Of these the most popular were doubtless the historical "Harold," "Rienzi," "The Last of the Barons," and "The Last Days of Pompeii," which still hold their own with the younger generation. The thoughtful men of to-day do not however read "The Caxtons" as they did in the sixties and seventies. Lytton was one of the cleverest men of his age--using the word in no friendly sense--he was a clever novelist, a clever dramatist (his comedy of "Money," and his tragedies "Richelieu" and "The Lady of Lyons," still hold the stage), and a clever Parliamentary debater.