To be a good head master of Eton demands many qualifications. Dr. Hawtrey had them all; he seemed born for the post, so admirably did he fit it. His hospitality was unbounded, and when on a great gala day like the Fourth of June he welcomed as guests many of the greatest people of the kingdom, it was a lesson to see the lofty yet kindly courtesy with which he maintained the dignity of what he justly conceived to be his great office. His tall, stately figure stalking amongst the smartly millinered ladies in his little slip of a garden was indeed princely. Later in life I met him in Paris, surrounded by some of the most notable men of the day, leaders of thought, who rejoiced in the society of the great head master, and in listening to his cultured, many-sided, cosmopolitan talk. He was equally at home in more frivolous surroundings. He was welcome everywhere; at a gathering at Stafford House he would wander through the famous galleries, a pet guest of the great Duchess Harriet, stopped every here and there by some reigning beauty, eager to greet and make much of the genial old man of whom she had heard so many kindly tales from husband or brothers, the old boys whom he loved and who loved him. Queen Victoria had the greatest regard for him, and it was his inspiration which induced Prince Albert to found the Prince Consort’s prizes for modern languages at Eton—a princely boon as wise as it was generous. I was often invited to his breakfast parties, which were interesting feasts, for he frequently had some man of note staying with him. More than once I met Guizot there after the collapse of the monarchy in 1848—a quiet, grey-haired old gentleman whom it was difficult to imagine facing the stormy Chamber with his famous “Criez, messieurs! hurlez! vos cris n’atteindront jamais le niveau de mon dédain!” Monsieur de Circourt was another friend of Hawtrey’s. One morning at breakfast—it must have been about the year ’50 or ’51—the Irish famine was being discussed. M. de Circourt, who prided himself on his knowledge of England, and more especially of our language, startled the table by saying: “But why did you not feed zem wiz mice?” (maize). The host without a smile answered: “Oh! but we did send them quantities of Indian corn,” and so cleverly turning the difficulty, saved his guest’s face. His wit was very ready—and would sometimes manifest itself in very unexpected moments. On one occasion, a boy of the name of Bosanquet was sent up to the Head Master for execution. The paraphernalia of doom were all in order; the block was drawn out from the wall, and two small collegers stood beside it—the holders-down. The sixth form Præpositor handed the rod to the Doctor with the “bill” upon which were written the names of the victims. Hawtrey read out: “Bŏsānquet!” The boy corrected him rather pertly: “Please, sir, my name is Bōsănquĕt not Bŏsānquet.” “Sive tu mavis Bōsănquĕt vocari Sive Bŏsānquĕt,”[18]