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 what he accomplished, the result is scanty. If he be appraised as a king, his reign was inglorious. He was neither a man of counsel nor of action, in days when both were needed. Yet he left behind him a memory which his people venerated, a memory which was a solace to them in times of misery and oppression. Somehow or other he impressed himself on their imagination; and there are periods in national life when the imagination alone remains vital, and cherishes conceptions which may grow in secret till they can again force their way to vigorous and open life. When England fell before the Norman power, it was not in the recollection of the statecraft of Godwine or the bravery of Harold—pure English as they were—that the English temper took refuge, but in the simpler and more intelligible figure of the well-meaning and gracious king who did little but loved much. It is well to remember this fact, for it calls up thoughts which give us a needful sense of the large meaning of life. When we come to weigh and measure, with our imperfect standards, we necessarily take into account practical capacity and usefulness in affairs. These can be seen and valued. But the qualities which fire the imagination and captivate the heart are diffused and impalpable. We seldom have an opportunity of seizing the general impression produced by a life and character. Only sometimes, at a great crisis, is this definitely realised as a possession which remains, when all sense of practical achievements has passed away. Men catch at this impression—it is the only thing left, and they live in the power of its suggestiveness. A time