We had the usual number of Tufts—some of whom achieved notoriety in after life: Lord Coventry early made a name for himself as a great agriculturist and model landlord, a mighty hunter before the Lord, M.F.H. and Master of the Buckhounds, a most conscientious and hardworking Lord Lieutenant of his county, and I suppose one of the best living judges of horses and racing; a man who has always been idolized by his friends. Then there was Skelmersdale, a really resplendent youth in all the first glory of a beard which was to become the joy of Courts and the title to an Earldom. He was as handsome as he was good and generous, the highest type of honest Anglo-Saxon beauty, after whom the Donnesses ran, worshipping, “en tout bien tout honneur,” as if he had been in deed, and not in appearance only, the archangel Gabriel. Of the undergraduates at Christ Church who were a little older than me, none was more brilliant, socially, than John Arkwright of Hampton Court, near Hereford; he was so gay, so full of fun, and so “good all round,” that he was always the central figure wherever he might be. The other day I was reading over again the copy of verses which he wrote as a “Vale” when he left Eton; the satire, always good-natured, of the different masters of that day was really a masterpiece of wit. Of course, all the delicate humour of it would be unintelligible to the present generation—its value depended on knowing the now long-forgotten shades that then were men—but as the work of a boy of seventeen or eighteen it was wonderful.