his suppression of egotism that he was more solicitous to show that you were wrong than that he was right. He also wanted, like Socrates or Bishop Butler, to make others, if possible, think for themselves. ‘However, it is not to be inferred that his conversation was made of controversy. To a certain extent it turned that way, because he was fond of paradox. (His brother William used to say that he, William, never felt he had really mastered a principle till he had thrown it into a paradox.) And paradox, of course, invites contradiction, and so controversy. On subjects upon which he considered himself more or less an apostle, he liked to stir people’s minds by what startled them, waking them up, or giving them “nuts to crack.” An almost solemn gravity, with amusement twinkling behind it (not invisible, and ready to burst forth into a bright low laugh when gravity had been played out), was a very frequent posture with him. But he was thoroughly ready to amuse and instruct, or to be amused and instructed, as an eager and earnest speaker or listener on most matters of interest. I do not remember that he had any great turn for beauty of colour; he had none, I think, or next to none, for music, nor do I remember in him any great love of humour; but for beauty of physical form, for mechanics, for mathematics, for poetry which had a root in true feeling, for wit (including that perception of a quasi-logical absurdity of position), for history, for domestic incidents, his sympathy was always lively, and he would throw himself naturally and warmly into them. From his general demeanour (I need scarcely say) the “odour of sanctity” was wholly absent. ‘I am not sure that his height and depth of aim and lively versatility of talent did not leave his compassionate sympathies rather undeveloped; certainly to himself, and, I suspect, largely in the case of others, he would view suffering not as a thing to be cockered up or made much of, though of course to be alleviated if possible, but to be viewed calmly as a Providential discipline for those who can mitigate, or have to endure it. J. H. N. was once reading me a letter just received from him in which (in answer to J. H. N.’s account of his work and the possibility of his breaking down), he said in substance: “I daresay you have more to do than your health will bear, but I would not have you give up anything except perhaps the Deanery” (of Oriel). And then J. H. N. paused, with a kind of inner exultant chuckle, and said: “Ah! there’s a Basil for you”; as if the friendship which sacrificed its friend, as it would sacrifice itself, to a cause, was the friendship which was really worth having.