often a great deal of affection on both sides, but little camaraderie.  Little boys are odd, tiresome creatures in many ways, with savage instincts; and I suppose many fathers feel that, if they are to maintain their authority, they must be a little distant and inscrutable.  A boy goes for sympathy and companionship to his mother and sisters, not often to his father.  Now a Don may do something to put this straight, if he has the will.  One of the best friends I ever had was an elderly Don at my own college, who had been a contemporary of my father’s.  He liked young men; and I used to consult him and ask his advice in things in which I could not well consult my own contemporaries.  It is not necessary to be extravagantly youthful, to slap people on the back, to run with the college boat, though that is very pleasant if it is done naturally.  All that is wanted is to be accessible and quietly genial.  And under such influences a young man may, without becoming elderly, get to understand the older point of view.

The difficulty is that one acquires habits and mannerisms; one is crusty and gruff if interfered with.  But, as Pater said, to acquire habits is failure in life.  Of course, one must realize limitations, and learn in what regions one can be effective.  But no one need be case-hardened, smoke-dried, angular.  The worst of a University is that one sees men lingering on because they must earn a living, and there is nothing else that they can do; but for a human-hearted, good-humoured, and sensible man, a college life is a life where it is easy and pleasant to practise benevolence and kindliness, and where a small investment of trouble pays a large percentage of happiness.  Indeed, surveying it impartially—­as impartially as I can—­such a life seems to hold within it perhaps the greatest possibilities of happiness that life can hold.  To have leisure and a degree of simple stateliness assured; to live in a wholesome dignity; to have the society of the young and generous; to have lively and intelligent talk; to have the choice of society and solitude alike; to have one’s working hours respected, and one’s leisure hours solaced—­is not this better than to drift into the so-called tide of professional success, with its dreary hours of work, its conventional domestic background?  No doubt the domestic background has its interests, its delights; but one must pay a price for everything, and I am more than willing to pay the price of celibacy for my independence.

The elderly Don in college rooms, interested in Greek particles, grumbling over his port wine, is a figure beloved by writers of fiction as a contrast to all that is brave, and bright, and wholesome in life.  Could there be a more hopeless misconception?  I do not know a single extant example of the species at the University.  Personally, I have no love for Greek particles, and only a very moderate taste for port wine.  But I do love, with all my heart, the grace of antiquity that mellows our crumbling courts,