of which Creighton happened to be captain. Creighton at once asked him to walk down to the river with him, and this was constantly repeated. The opening of the New Building when he was entering his third year, gave Creighton a great opportunity for what Mr. Saintsbury calls his innocently Socratic habit of taking up ingenuous freshmen, whom, unlike most takers-up, he never put down again.' It was his custom to call on all freshmen, and he would take pains to be of use to them if possible. Mr. Saintsbury says that in the discussions which they used to have on all things in heaven and earth, at all hours of the day and night, nothing came up so often as a pet idea of Creighton's about influence. He thought that everybody ought to try and influence others as much as he could.' His ideas as to the way in which influence should be exerted probably changed very much with wider experience. In after life he certainly considered strong personal influence a thing to be avoided, as decidedly weakening to character. He wrote in 1871 to one who was very ready to be guided by him :

'I think you want me to do too much for you in separate actions and decisions. . . . Draw as largely as you like on my experience, but come to your conclusions, because your trust in me makes my experience yours, and so enables you to see your way more clearly, but let it be always your way, not my way; don't take my advice unless it convinces you, get to the bottom of it . . . and if you do accept it, let it be because you quite agree with it, not because it is mine.'

All through his life he increasingly felt his responsibility to others. He wished to teach, to guide, to develop their character by affection and sympathy, to get them to think for themselves; but he always wished them to be themselves, and never tried to impress himself on them, or get them to take his views. Probably it was this same sense of responsibility, this same desire to help, which was expressed in his less mature days as a desire for influence.

Merton owned in those days three University oars, and the College eight, in which Creighton rowed seven, was one of the best boats on the river. This helped him to get to know men who were more given to athletics than to reading.

'There was,' writes Dr. Copleston, 'a good deal of very foolish but not very harmful rowdyism in Merton then;

bear-fighting at the wine club, breaking of furniture and windows, and kindling of bonfires. Creighton was never to be found where these were going on; and yet he was not felt to be uncomfortably strict or at all censorious. I admire now what did not strike me then-the quiet tact with which he kept clear of these follies, without making himself unpleasant to those who enjoyed them, among whom were some of his dearest friends, notably William Foster.'

This harmless rowdyism reached its height with a famous bonfire in Mob Quad on November 5, 1865, a dangerous proceeding in so confined a space, among some of the oldest buildings in Oxford. Creighton was then in lodgings, and he took no part in the bonfire, of which his friend Foster was the hero.

The College authorities considered the bonfire too serious a breach of discipline to be passed over, and next day all the men in College were gated. I think it was on this occasion that the old Warden, Dr. Marsham, was asked by the tutors to speak seriously to the men about their unruly conduct. Thus urged, he addressed the assembled College, and rebuked them for behaving in such an ungentlemanly manner, concluding with these words: And all I can say, gentlemen, is, that if you want to behave like barbarian savages, why,―ahem -ahem--you should come and ask leave first.'

The undergraduates determined to show their indignation at what they considered unjustifiable conduct on the part of the dons, and organised nightly during the following week solemn processions round the Fellows' Quad. Creighton, who, being in lodgings, had not been gated, was employed to fetch in after dinner a supply of penny whistles and other musical instruments, armed with which, with tea-trays as drums, making the most horrible din, and letting off squibs and crackers as they went, the undergraduates marched round and round the Fellows' Quad. The dons had the good sense to remain quietly in the Common Room; they likened the performance to the procession round the walls of Jericho, and Professor Esson was fond of chaffing Creighton on the subject, and saying: 'You expected the walls of the College to fall down, but they stood firm.' On one occasion, however, the procession was stopped in a moment by a message

brought by the porter from the Warden to say, that he would be obliged if the gentlemen would not make quite so much noise, as he had a party.

William Foster, the hero of the bonfire, was a tall broadshouldered man, with a fair beard, and blue eyes which looked out upon the world with the frank joy of a bright pure nature. He was the centre of a little group of specially close friends, consisting of himself, Creighton, R. T. Raikes, and C. Boyd (afterwards Archdeacon of Ceylon), the quadrilateral, as they called themselves; Boyd belonged to University, the rest were all Merton men. Foster seems to have possessed all those qualities which call forth the special admiration and affection of young men. It is told of him that when the undergraduates played a game, popular at that time, in which marks were given for the various qualities of the players, Foster always came out with head marks. Within the quadrilateral of friends, he inspired specially strong feelings of attachment. The four were never happier than when together, whether in vacation or in term time. There was no lack of sentimentality in their friendship. They exchanged rings as marks of devotion, each of the four wearing a gold band set with three turquoises to symbolise the others.

Writing in January 1866 to R. T. Raikes, Creighton says: 'However much I may like other people, my feelings towards them are entirely different in kind to those I feel to the three within the mystic circle.'

At Christmas, 1864, just as this close bond of friendship was forming, Creighton writes to R. T. Raikes :

'Do you know I always look upon vac.'s with a sort of melancholy satisfaction, as in them in my solitary hours, when I have nothing to think about, I am driven to review my conduct during the last term, and consider how very feeble it has been in reviewing last term I have to observe with a sigh that it has been very pleasant but . . . very, very idle. I have learnt an immense amount morally, I believe, and have had my views of human nature considerably expanded, and I shall always remember last term with the most intense pleasure, for in it I got to know you, my dear Robert, and Boyd: therefore a very memorable term will it ever be to me. I do so well remember now the exact moment when