ABSTRACT
It is difficult in the brief space of a review to do justice to a man's memory, when he has left behind him a great deal of rather remarkable verse, yet without winning the assured reputation of a poet, and many thoughtful papers on a fairly wide range of subjects, without being much of a litterateur or philosopher either. If this is difficult to do at all, it is nearly impossible, while his death is still recent, to do it to the satisfaction of those in whose hearts the personal impress of the writer is yet strong and deep. Clough was one of those men in whom the moral and the intellectual are so finely intermixed as to send to a maximum their power of personal impressiveness. In this, though perhaps in little else, he resembled Sterling, like whom also he enjoyed the warm friendship of Mr. Carlyle. But Clough's power of impressing others was so absolute that it could assert itself by reticence as much as by utterance. ‘I always felt his presence,’ said one of his friends. His own line Mute and exuberant by turns, a fountain at intervals playing,
