lighted on in a Greek newspaper.  Dr. Pusey was a person who commanded the utmost interest and reverence; he was more in communication with the great world outside than Oxford people generally, and lived much in retirement from Oxford society; but to all interested in the movement he was its representative and highest authority.  He and Mr. Newman had the fullest confidence in one another, though conscious at times of not perfect agreement; yet each had a line of his own, and each of them was apt to do things out of his own head.  Dr. Pusey was accessible to all who wished to see him; but he did not encourage visits which wasted time.  And the person who was pre-eminently, not only before their eyes, but within their reach in the ordinary intercourse of man with man, was Mr. Newman.  Mr. Newman, who lived in College in the ordinary way of a resident Fellow, met other university men, older or younger, on equal terms.  As time went on, a certain wonder and awe gathered round him.  People were a little afraid of him; but the fear was in themselves, not created by any intentional stiffness or coldness on his part.  He did not try to draw men to him, he was no proselytiser; he shrank with fear and repugnance from the character—­it was an invasion of the privileges of the heart.[61] But if men came to him, he was accessible; he allowed his friends to bring their friends to him, and met them more than half-way.  He was impatient of mere idle worldliness, of conceit and impertinence, of men who gave themselves airs; he was very impatient of pompous and solemn emptiness.  But he was very patient with those whom he believed to sympathise with what was nearest his heart; no one, probably, of his power and penetration and sense of the absurd, was ever so ready to comply with the two demands which a witty prelate proposed to put into the examination in the Consecration Service of Bishops:  “Wilt thou answer thy letters?” “Wilt thou suffer fools gladly?” But courteous, affable, easy as he was, he was a keen trier of character; he gauged, and men felt that he gauged, their motives, their reality and soundness of purpose; he let them see, if they at all came into his intimacy, that if they were not, he, at any rate, was in the deepest earnest.  And at an early period, in a memorable sermon,[62] the vivid impression of which at the time still haunts the recollection of some who heard it, he gave warning to his friends and to those whom his influence touched, that no child’s play lay before them; that they were making, it might be without knowing it, the “Ventures of Faith.”  But feeling that he had much to say, and that a university was a place for the circulation and discussion of ideas, he let himself be seen and known and felt, both publicly and in private.  He had his breakfast parties and his evening gatherings.  His conversation ranged widely, marked by its peculiar stamp—­entire ease, unstudied perfection of apt and clean-cut words, unexpected glimpses of a sure and piercing judgment.  At times, at more private meetings, the violin, which he knew how to touch, came into play.