s, of course,
was putting out of view the restraints which religion would impose;
but it was safe for no man to have the absolute control of others.

He left us to go into the house, and Mrs. Kingsley then spoke of his
parochial labors. She wished I could spend a Sunday with them--"I
should so like you to see the congregation he has. The common
farm-laborers come morning and afternoon: the reason is, he preaches
so that they can understand him. I wish you could have been with us
last Sunday, we had such an interesting person here--Max Mueller, the
great linguist and Orientalist. But we can't have pleasant _meets_
here: we have only one spare room."

"How old is Max Mueller?" I asked.

"Twenty-eight, and he scarcely looks to be twenty-two."

"How long has Mr. Kingsley been here?" I asked.

"Fifteen years--two years as curate, and then the living becoming
vacant, it was given to him."

She told me a funeral was to take place directly--that of a poor woman
who had been a great sufferer. "Ah, here it comes," she said.

There was the bier borne on men's shoulders and a little company
of mourners, the peasantry of the neighborhood, the men wearing
smock-frocks. They were awaiting the clergyman at the lichgate. Mr.
Kingsley appeared at the moment in his surplice, and the procession
entered the churchyard, he saying as he walked in front the solemn
sentences with which the service begins. It was the scene which I had
witnessed in another part of Hampshire some years before, when the
author of _The Christian Year_ was the officiating clergyman. Mrs.
Kingsley and I joined the procession and entered the church. It was a
small, oddly-arranged interior--brick pavements, high-backed pews,
the clerk's desk adjoining the reading-desk, but a little lower. Mr.
Kingsley read the service in a measured tone, which enabled him to
overcome the defect in his utterance noticeable in conversation. At
the grave the rest of the office was said, and here the grief of the
poor mourners overcame them. The family group consisted of the husband
of the deceased, a grown-up daughter and a son, a boy of fifteen. All
were much moved, but the boy the most. He cried bitterly--a long wail,
as if he could not be comforted. Mr. Kingsley tried to console him,
putting his arm over his shoulders. He said words of sympathy to the
others also. They went their way over the heath to their desolate
home. Mr. and Mrs. Kingsley spoke of the life of toil which had