There was lately also a more Roman type amongst us. He had a lusty Terentian wit that was not in the fashion of these times; and his proud frankness about everything but his soul found even less welcome from a generation that liked to talk of little else. “A little hypocrisy”--such was his advice to freshmen, but not his practice--“a little hypocrisy is useful to a virtuous man, since it is hard not to appear a hypocrite, especially when one is not.” He was what is called an intemperate man. For, though a small, fastidious eater and short sleeper, he was a man of many bottles; nor had he the common gift of repenting of the truths which claret inspired and port enabled him to express. He never learned to whine over private infelicity--a weighty shortcoming; or to moralise on the infelicities of others--which was almost a virtue. A small Kantian once asked him how he felt after a bereavement. “It has never occurred to me,” was his reply, “to think how I felt.” An unsuccessful man himself, and burdened by his more successful and more indolent relatives, his catchword was, nevertheless, “Success.” But he perhaps hated more than a noisy failure a noisy success. Always scheming on behalf of others, he laid no plans for himself, except by writing his own epitaph, on the day before his death. He ate, drank, was merry, and did his duty. He was the life and soul and financial saviour of his college. At no time was he a profound student; he had been elected to a fellowship on account of his birth; yet the brilliant scholar and the nice courtier of the college admitted that he, the chapel, and the cook were equally indispensable. In fact, he was as near to the ideal head of a college as it would be wise to have in an ancient university. He could not lecture, and was a poor judge of imitation Greek prose. He radiated a clean and vigorous worldly influence through both Common Rooms. He knew every undergraduate who was within the reach of knowledge. His judgment of men was as consummate and as untransferable as his judgment of wine. It was his custom to say that there had been three philosophers, two ancient, one modern, in the history of the world--Ecclesiastes, Democritus, and Sir William Temple of Moor Park. To his pupils he used to pronounce that, “since you are average men and will never be able to understand Ecclesiastes or take the trouble to understand Democritus,” they should follow the Englishman. He then repeated from memory this passage (with such solemnity that I believe he felt it to be his own):--