his chivalry, older men by his genuine humility and sympathy!

All that was now passing away--was gone. But as one looked on him
for the last time on earth, one felt that greater than the curate,
the poet, the professor, the canon, had been the man himself, with
his warm heart, his honest purposes, his trust in his friends, his
readiness to spend himself, his chivalry and humility, worthy of a
better age.

Of all this the world knew little;--yet few men excited wider and
stronger sympathies.

Who can forget that funeral on the 28th Jan., 1875, and the large sad
throng that gathered round his grave? There was the representative
of the Prince of Wales, and close by the gipsies of the Eversley
common, who used to call him their Patrico-rai, their Priest-King.
There was the old Squire of his village, and the labourers, young and
old, to whom he had been a friend and a father. There were Governors
of distant Colonies, officers, and sailors, the Bishop of his
diocese, and the Dean of his abbey; there were the leading
Nonconformists of the neighbourhood, and his own devoted curates,
Peers and Members of the House of Commons, authors and publishers;
and outside the church-yard, the horses and the hounds and the
huntsman in pink, for though as good a clergyman as any, Charles
Kingsley had been a good sportsman too, and had taken in his life
many a fence as bravely as he took the last fence of all, without
fear or trembling. All that he had loved, and all that had loved him
was there, and few eyes were dry when he was laid in his own yellow
gravel bed, the old trees which he had planted and cared for waving
their branches to him for the last time, and the grey sunny sky