I think that one gathers from all dispassionate observers of the Bishop that what struck them most in him was the blending of boisterous fun and animal spirits with a deep and abiding sense of the seriousness of religion.  In the philanthropist-father the religious seriousness rather preponderated over the fun; in the bishop-son (by a curious inversion of parts) the fun sometimes concealed the religiousness.  To those who speculate in matters of race and pedigree it is interesting to watch the two elements contending in the character of Canon Basil Wilberforce, the Bishop’s youngest and best-beloved son.  When you see his graceful figure and clean-shaven ecclesiastical face in the pulpit of his strangely old-fashioned church, or catch the vibrating notes of his beautifully modulated voice in

    “The hush of our dread high altar,
     Where The Abbey makes us We,”

you feel yourself in the presence of a born ecclesiastic, called from his cradle by an irresistible vocation to a separate and sanctified career.  When you see him on the platform of some great public meeting, pouring forth argument, appeal, sarcasm, anecdote, fun, and pathos in a never-ceasing flood of vivid English, you feel that you are under the spell of a born orator.  And yet again, when you see the priest of Sunday, the orator of Monday, presiding on Tuesday with easy yet finished courtesy at the hospitable table of the most beautiful dining-room in London, or welcomed with equal warmth for his racy humour and his unfailing sympathy in the homes of his countless friends, you feel that here is a man naturally framed for society, in whom his father and grandfather live again.  Truly a combination of hereditary gifts is displayed in Canon Wilberforce; and the social agreeableness of London received a notable addition when Mr. Gladstone transferred him from Southampton to Dean’s Yard.

Of agreeable Canons there is no end, and the Chapter of Westminster is peculiarly rich in them.  Mr. Gore’s ascetic saintliness of life conceals from the general world, but not from the privileged circle of his intimate friends, the high breeding of a great Whig family and the philosophy of Balliol.  Archdeacon Furse has the refined scholarship and delicate literary sense which characterized Eton in its days of glory.  Dr. Duckworth’s handsome presence has long been welcomed in the very highest of all social circles.  Mr. Eyton’s massive bulk and warm heart, and rugged humour and sturdy common sense, produce the effect of a clerical Dr. Johnson.  But perhaps we must turn our back on the Abbey and pursue our walk along the Thames Embankment as far as St. Paul’s if we want to discover the very finest flower of canonical culture and charm, for it blushes unseen in the shady recesses of Amen Court.  Henry Scott Holland, Canon of St. Paul’s, is beyond all question one of the most agreeable men of his time.  In fun and geniality and warm-hearted hospitality he is a worthy successor of Sydney Smith,