Like Maurice, he was wholly indifferent to worldly gain, and the last man to solicit preferment in any shape. His own words on the subject were, that he would rather that people asked why he was not made a bishop than why he was. The story goes that Mr. Gladstone once attended his church in Marylebone, in order to judge for himself of the vicar’s fitness for promotion. The Prime Minister was so depressed by the discourse which he heard and the small attendance, that all chance of promotion vanished. The great man did not know that, as a matter of fact, he had been listening to another preacher altogether, that, as it happened, Llewelyn Davies was away on a holiday and not in the church that day. It is true that the latter was somewhat cold in manner and measured in address, not by any means a preacher to electrify large congregations and appeal to popular audiences, one who convinced rather than attracted—a guide to thinking men, not a master of the rhetoric which moves the multitude. Still, in a worldly sense, he never received his due. Our Church of England seems to have considerable capacity for leaving its best and wisest sons out in the cold. Maurice and Llewelyn Davies kept numbers in the faith who would otherwise have drifted from it, because their teaching and their lives proved to demonstration that breadth of view, intellectual power, and democratic sympathies are wholly compatible with intense religious belief, conspicuous before all men every day and all day. He took his degree in what he himself styled the ‘fateful year’ 1848, a time of social and industrial upheaval. Then it was that what was known as the Christian Socialist Movement came into being, and six years later, in 1854, the Christian Socialists founded the Working Men’s College. Llewelyn Davies was one of them; and when he died, the last of the founders passed away after nearly sixty-two years of the life of the College. They were a great band of men, these Christian Socialists. Charles Kingsley was prominent among them. So was John Ruskin, so were Tom Hughes, John Malcolm Ludlow, the father of Friendly Societies, Professor Westlake, the International lawyer, and many other men of note. They were poles asunder from one another in character, in pursuits, in a hundred ways; but they all had the betterment of their fellow-men in mind, and one man held them all together, the greatest but most humble-minded of them all, Maurice, a leader in spite of himself. I came into the College years after Maurice had died, but I found that some rare and potent influence had been and still was at work, that some personality had left an impress, which was different in kind and greater in degree than anything in ordinary life. Men of all religions and of no religion seemed to have become infected with a kind of noble contagion, and in turn to be infecting others. One old student explained to me that the secret of Maurice’s influence was his transparent truthfulness,