913 sentiments assuredly betray the author himself, says, " He had kept in a singular degree all the sensibilities of childhood, its simplicity, its reverence. It seemed as if nothing that he met in his daily life was uncommon or unclean to him, for there was no mordant in his nature for what was coarse or vile, and all else he could not help idealising into its own conception of itself, so to speak. He loved the