he had that drop of wild blood which drives men from town into the
air and the desert, wherever there are savage lands to conquer,
beasts to hunt, and a hardy life to be lived. But he was the son of
a clergyman, and a clergyman himself. The spirit that should have
gone into action went into talking, preaching, writing--all sources
of great pleasure to thousands of people, and so not wasted. Yet
these were not the natural outlets of Kingsley's life: he should
have been a soldier, or an explorer; at least, we may believe that
he would have preferred such fortune. He did his best, the best he
knew, and it is all on the side of manliness, courage, kindness.
Perhaps he tried too many things--science, history, fairy tales,
religious and political discussions, romance, poetry. Poetry was
what he did best, romance next; his science and his history are
entertaining, but without authority.

This, when one reads it again, seems a cold, unfriendly estimate of
a man so ardent and so genuine, a writer so vivacious and courageous
as Kingsley. Even the elderly reviewer bears to him, and to his
brother Henry, a debt he owes to few of their generation. The truth
is we should READ Kingsley; we must not criticise him. We must
accept him and be glad of him, as we accept a windy, sunny autumn
day--beautiful and blusterous--to be enjoyed and struggled with. If
once we stop and reflect, and hesitate, he seems to preach too much,
and with a confidence which his knowledge of the world and of
history does not justify. To be at one with Kingsley we must be
boys again, and that momentary change cannot but be good for us.
Soon enough--too soon--we shall drop back on manhood, and on all the
difficulties and dragons that Kingsley drove away by a blast on his
chivalrous and cheery horn.