There we left him in completest trust, our "Knight Errant," after his life's warfare.
For there is a poem by Adelaide Procter (on whom written I know not) which seems to give, with the full force of poetical presentation, the spirit of the Life I have tried to depict. It even seems to follow the very order of the periods of that life—our hero following the course of hers; and thus fulfilling Mrs Browning's words when she says—
"Ingemisco, ingemisco!
Is ever a lament begun
By any mourner under sun
Which, ere it endeth, suits but one?"
In my extract-book the following lines have lain away for the nearly forty years which have passed since he went from us, and they still remain, to me, the best expression of what he was. I find, in pencil, against the verses the place or date which they symbolise.
If those who have read these pages see their aptness, they will learn from them, more than from any words of mine, what measure of man he was.
A Knight Errant.