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the Most High God. It will hardly surprise you to hear that he died at 37, hounded into his grave by that malevolent bigotry which is subtler and sharper than the knife that kills; the zealot bitterness of narrow natures that mistook his large and catholic views for heresy. But when he died, ten thousand of those who loved him followed him to his grave, which today is marked with a monument erected to his memory "by his friends, the working-men of Brighton." The other was the face of Samuel Rogers, author of "Pleasures of Memory," with whom, in his 84th year, I spent some days. His hair was white as snow; but his eyebrows were jet black; and over all his face - radiant with meek joy - there rested "The light that never was on sea or land, The consecration and the poet's dream." It has pleased my Maker to give me a nature susceptible of white heats of anger and scorn; and there is a great deal of spilt-saltpetre in the world. Moreover, herded in this gregarious life with men whose lips are often sooty with terrible curses, I am dragged desperately toward lower levels. Can you conceive that