He goes on to say:

*

By the bye, I heard yesterday in a roundabout way that the kind Doctor is laid up; I hope it was no more than an occasional cold. A. was here to be confirmed, and saw her godmamma; it was a nice day, and our church looked very pretty; and our Bishop, both then and on the Saturday at Ampfield, did give such fatherly advice in such fatherly tones, that it did one's heart good. Dear C. sends you her kind love, and you are not to think of her as suffering, only she is weak; she hopes to write to you soon. Be sure we remember you; graceless must we be if we did not. All good be with you, your dear mother, sisters, and all. affectionate friend, J. K.

Again:

My dear kind Friend,

Ever your

H. V. Aug. 21, '62.

I know you will be glad to hear that, although of course very far from well, my wife is really improved (I can hardly say improving from day to day) under the direction of Dr. Williams, of Brook Street, whom we consulted in London, and by the help of almost daily drives, and a run down to the Dart and back. We went to see if we could fix on a winter home, but are still hovering between Penzance and Torquay. I wish I could hear a thorough good (account) of you with your N.W. breezes...... Fieldhouse is here, and very charming it is, and we have hope of a little private visit of our own from Eand A

It was about this time that Mr. Keble sat to Richmond for the delightful portrait, of which the engraving is a treasure to so many. 'I have been gazing,' writes a mutual friend, (Colonel W.) 'at Holl's beautiful copy of that picture, and each time I look at it I marvel at the genius which has brought out the seraph's fire that burned within, and flung its glory over eye and lip and brow.'

They moved to Penzance for that winter and the spring of '63, on Mrs. Keble's account, returning to Hursley for the summer. In August, while staying with a brother at Netley, near Southampton, I received a loving summons to Hursley, from Mrs. Keble's own pen. Mr. Keble met me at Winchester, and our drive out to the Vicarage was fraught with recollections of sorrowful interest. He seemed rather glad to speak freely of her precarious state; it was almost always now she or her, no name was needed to shew in which direction his thoughts were incessantly tending, 'true as the needle to the pole,' and like that, trembling and quivering. Then we talked about Bishop Wilson's life, lately come out, and of which he had most kindly sent me a copy, with 'thanks for valuable help' inscribed within. From anyone else those words would have seemed almost a mockery, but from him they were pleasant, and one was quite content to act the part of the fly on his chariot wheel. He spoke of the exceeding dearth of domestic incident in that life. There was something touching, he thought, in that little oasis of married happiness, not described, only summed up in the words, 'she was an excellent woman;' then the long stern life stretching far away beyond * His usual epithet for his dear and trusted friend, Dr. Moberly.

the allotted fourscore years, till the memory of the 'wife of his youth' must have become distant and dim.

Mr. Keble was almost overcome when speaking thus of 'Mary Patten,' 'the companion of her husband's soul,' as the older biographer prettily calls her. He said a good deal about the discipline kept up by Bishop Wilson, Bishop Gastrell of Chester, and others of that day; he thought that, in some modified shape at least, it would have been useful now, as a check upon open vice-and he lamented (as nearly as I can remember) that matters affecting our conscience, and our religious faith even, were now decided by Parliament, instead of by our spiritual superiors, the power in such things gradually drifting away from the Church to the world. I felt these were 'great matters, too high for me,' and could only listen with respect to what fell from those honoured lips. It was a comfort to see him smile at last, as he said, 'Some of my friends don't agree with me-but I can't always, you know, look at things from the legal point of view!'

Mrs. Keble seemed at first sight less altered by her illness than might have been expected-only a little thinner, and more delicate and hectic in colouring. But it soon became apparent how much weaker she was, and how easily her breathing was hurried by walking any distance, or going up-stairs. With this tendency, fresh air without fatigue was the best tonic she could have, so she drove out each day. Once she took me to Rownams through a charming forest district, with pleasant glades, and peeps down to the river. But she generally combined some parochial visitings with her drives, and therefore preferred her recently acquired donkey-carriage, drawn by the 'Jacky,' now immortalized in the memoir. He certainly was a pattern animal, strong, and willing, and patient in his long waitings at cottage doors. She liked driving him herself, only now and then resigning the reins when his spirits ran away with him, and he pulled too hard, as sometimes happened when crossing the turf in the park. He really seemed to mind her gentle voice, and even when tormented by the forest fly, would stand still at her bidding till one could alight and rid him of the enemy. The cottager was right who, to her great amusement, remarked that Mrs. Keble was blest in her donkey!

*

When indoors, the dear invalid's voice was weak, and speaking seemed an effort; but I observed that when out, on a cool day, the strain seemed much less, and she readily took her bright part in conversation. Those were very happy, and I trust profitable, hours to me. I used often to think she had caught not a little of the poet spirit from her husband; while at other times, her practical suggestions and encouragements when we talked of prosaic matters, or of district and infirmary visiting, were truly helpful. Well might Mr. Keble call her, as he often playfully did, his Conscience.

We parted again, and nothing suited for your eye is said in her letters

*I am afraid Jacky has not kept up his character since. His head was turned, and he has shewn too plainly the danger of being a great man's donkey.—ED.

till the middle of March, '64, when she writes from Torquay: 'My husband is preaching every Friday during this Lent, at one of the churches here, on the Types of our Lord in the Old Testament, beginning with Abraham offering up Isaac; and I am glad to say these lectures are written.' Speaking of bodily suffering in the same letter, she says: 'Welcome as the hope of ease is, I am sure you must know what it is to feel almost glad to be in pain sometimes, rather than ease—when one thinks of the fearful state of the most important things. . . . I hope the "Litany" ( ) came to you safely; I believe it is very much used; a penny edition has been asked for, and one can't but hope it may prove instructive as well as intercessary. My husband was much vexed to see that the Lord's Prayer had been omitted by mistake; it should come in at the end of page 22..... We have escaped snow here, but the wind has been very cold some days, and the weather so variable, that one is obliged to be very cautious about going out. There have been some sweet bird-singing days, in earnest of spring. Have you read the second volume of Mendelssohn's Letters? they make one love him and his music more than ever.' .

You will remember how the tidings of Mr. Keble's attack of paralysis (Nov. '64) carried sorrow to many hearts. Mrs. Keble, calm though heart-stricken, writes thus about him :

Penzance, the 24th of January, '65.

You will, I know, like to have a direct bulletin, and I like you to know how he is. It has been one among many comforts, that all the doctors who have seen him agree in a hopeful view of his case. They all said that there was reason to hope for restoration even to working powers, if he would spare himself for a time; and he has so dutifully gone on observing these rules, that one does rather cling to the hope-though I have tried not to look on, but to be satisfied with the improvement that has been granted day by day. Everybody who sees him thinks, as I do, that he has recovered his natural hue and countenance very much; and lately he has ventured to look into books without continuous reading, in a way that relieves the tedium of doing nothing, and makes him feel less dependent. He could not write a letter, but he dictates the substance of answers to letters, so that he can still take a little part with those who have to work on without his presence now. I feel a little anxious sometimes, when he begins to use his head; yet I believe it is safer for him to put out a thought than to brood upon it.

This place is more refreshing than Torquay, less of a watering-place, and more picturesque; besides that, we are close to the glorious old sea, almost too close in stormy weather. But there is continual interest in watching it, and he enjoys walking on the sands whenever the weather is favourable.

My cousin, James Young, has been with us during his whole vacation, and most useful as well as cheering, but he must go back to Oxford on Friday. I hardly know what we shall do without him, and it makes one understand how kind his parents have been in sparing him. We need an able-bodied companion, as, alas! I have no breath to spare for reading aloud, which has now become a necessity with us.

Can you imagine our having turned whist-players? every evening we have a rubber. I'm afraid I am very stupid, never having tried my hand or wits at it before-but I feel very grateful for the little variety it affords.

We thought of you and your happy little party on Holy Innocents' Day.. To sum up my report of him. I know you will rejoice to hear that the last time we had the Holy Communion (i. e. last week) he was able to be Priest himself.

Please still (she adds in a P. S.) to remember us in your prayers and thanksgivings for one feels so wanting!

Within a week of the date of this letter Mrs. Keble had another violent attack, which was followed by an untoward accident, from pouring boiling water over her foot. She writes thus cheerfully about it, on the 4th of March, '65—'I have been a very bad nurse to my invalid-but after spending nearly a month in my bed-room, am down-stairs again, hoping after we have had a little turn of equinoctial weather to get out into the fresh air. Our winter has consisted mostly of wind and rain, and we have seldom been long without a bright sunny day-blue sea and blue sky. I have a most luxurious bed-room, with a perfect view of the Bay; indeed, from my bed I could see only sea and sky and a point of land. One of my great treats during this confinement has been reading a French book which C. M. Y— in her kindness lent me-a memoir of a most saintly person, a sufferer in various ways during the Revolution. I have often heard people say they have felt as if they lost a relation when "Guy" (of Redclyffe) dies; but there is this difference when one has to take leave of Madame de Montagu, that one feels she is still living, and a member of the same Body (as ourselves). And through the whole book there is so little to remind one of the difference of Communion, and so much to humble one to the dust.'. . . . . She adds, 'You can hardly realize what it is to be, as far as one knows, entirely useless-seeing nothing of the poor for such a long time. However, I don't mean this to be grumbling, for I am most thankful to have this place of shelter; not as hitherto for myself only, but for my husband too, it seems so salutary. He has recovered his looks almost entirely, and begins to long for regular occupation—but as the doctors say, he must be content to "vegetate while he is away. I am sure the powers will come when it is God's Will that he should work again, though perhaps not as before.'

.....

Then follow many inquiries and loving comments on our doings, and those of mutual friends, whom no pressure of illness or trouble could ever make her forget.

A letter from Hursley, June 2nd, says that Mr. Keble is 'gaining ground,' but forbidden to do work. 'Preaching would be suicidal;' he had however read one Lesson in church on a Sunday, and was able to visit his villagers, and to take longer drives in the 'big carriage, poor Jacky being unfortunately lame, and under medical treatment!' They had tarried in Devonshire on their way home, 'at Dartington, near Totnes, all among the delicious woods, and' she adds 'my husband felt very sensibly the relief of the green, just then in its freshest-after the glare of the sea and a treeless shore. Our dear niece and her six home chicks were charmingly well-the youngest, six months old, the perfection of a healthy babe. She is a "Cecilia," and in my lap she first realized

the delight of making a sound with the pats of her little fat hand on the keys of the piano-the other little ones who stood round were no less charmed with the performance, clapping their hands in ecstasy. . . . I like you to know how much cause we have to be thankful, and I hope there will be no hindrance to your coming to judge for yourself.'

Mrs. Keble thus alludes to the recent death of the author of the Baptistery:

'I believe Mrs. Isaac Williams and all the family at Stinchcombe were aware that the end was near. To us it was rather unexpected, though we knew from himself that he had been failing very much during the winter; his last note was cheerful, and spoke of our meeting again, either here or there; he was then looking forward to Dr. Newman's visit, with great pleasure. About an hour before the end, he asked for the Sacra Privata, but was not able to read it; nothing could be more gentle or sleep-like than the great change when it came, nor more suitable to the life of watching which preceded it, if one may venture to judge. (Whitsun Eve.) I must reserve all else for another time, and only give you our best and loving thoughts and wishes for this blessed time.'

Some weeks later I went to Hursley, very anxious, as you may imagine, to 'judge for myself' what changes the last two eventful years had wrought in the Vicarage. Perhaps it was a sign that Mr. Keble's deafness had slightly increased, that the sound of a friend's carriage wheels did not bring him, as of yore, into his porch. It was high summer, a more than usually flowery and bowery summer, as you may remember, and every window and door stood wide open; a whiff of jessamine sweetness met me at the door, and the little drawing-room looked quite a sun-trap. Mr. Keble was standing with his back to me, but turned, and came up with extended hands, saying, 'I rejoice with you in your new Bishophave you seen the appointment?' and he shewed it me in the newspaper, and spoke fully and warmly about it, to Mrs. Keble's amusement, before the more conventional greetings were so much as thought about. When animated, he did not betray the ravages illness had made upon him—but when in repose, (and that was, perforce, often; for he could not walk, or talk, or keep on the stretch in any way, for long,) you saw how pale and sunk he had become. The clearness of his utterance was not affected, and he was as keen in his perceptions, and as warm and tender-hearted,

as ever.

It was a new thing to see him the 'chartered invalid' of the house, and dear Mrs. Keble watching over him, and keeping her many ailments and increased feebleness in the background as far as might be, to evade his anxious eye. They usually had two cheering young nurses with them, a young lady cousin, and Mr. James Young, long before described to me as 'son and daughter in one.' He was at the Vicarage at this time, and quite his 'uncle's' and 'aunt's' mainstay.

Mr. Keble still went to the full stretch of his physical powers in parish