zeman, 1880; Porson Scholar, 1881; Craven Scholar
and Browne Medalist, 1882; Senior Chancellor's Medalist, 1883; 1st Class
Classics, 1882 and 1883; Hare Prizeman, 1885; Assistant Master at Eton,
1884-88; Fellow of King's, 1886-88; Fellow and Tutor of Hertford
College, Oxford, 1889-1904; Select Preacher at Oxford, 1893-95, 1903-5,
1920-21; Cambridge, 1901, 1906, 1910, 1912, 1913, 1920; Bampton
Lecturer, 1899; Hon. D.D., Aberdeen, 1905; Paddock Lecturer, New York,
1906; Vicar of All Saints' Ennismore Gardens, S.W., 1905-7; Lady
Margaret Professor of Divinity and Fellow of Jesus College, Cambridge,
1907-l1; Hon. Fellow of Jesus College, Cambridge, and of Hertford
College, Oxford; Academic Committee Royal Soc. of Literature; Gifford
Lecturer, St. Andrews, 1917-18; Romanes and Hibbert Lecturer, 1920; Hon.
D.Litt., Durham, 1920.

[Illustration: DEAN INGE]

CHAPTER II

DEAN INGE

_Some day, when I've quite made up my mind what to fight for, or whom to
fight, I shall do well enough, if I live, but I haven't made up my mind
what to fight for--whether, for instance, people ought to live in Swiss
cottages and sit on three-legged or one-legged stools; whether people
ought to dress well or ill; whether ladies ought to tie their hair in
beautiful knots; whether Commerce or Business of any kind be an
invention of the Devil or not; whether Art is a Crime or only an
Absurdity; whether Clergymen ought to be multiplied, or exterminated by
arsenic, like rat; whether in general we are getting on, and if so where
we are going to; whether it's worth while to ascertain any of these
things; whether one's tongue was ever made to talk with or only to taste
with._-JOHN RUSKIN.

When our day is done, and men look back to the, shadows we have left
behind us, and there is no longer any spell of personal magnetism to
delude right judgment, I think that the figure of Dean Inge may emerge
from the dim and too crowded tapestry of our period with something of
the force, richness, and abiding strength which gives Dr. Johnson his
great place among authentic Englishmen.

His true setting is the Deanery of St. Paul's, that frowning and
melancholy house in a backwater of London's jarring tide, where the
dust collects, and sunlight has a struggle to make two ends meet, and
cold penetrates like a dagger, and fog hangs like a pall, and the blight
of ages clings to stone and brick, to window and woodwork, with an
adhesive mournfulness which suggest