He died on the 20th of October, 1894, and was buried at Salcombe in his beloved Devonshire not far from his beloved sea.  He “made his everlasting mansion upon the beached verge of the salt flood.”  By his own particular desire he was described on his tombstone as Regius Professor of Modern History at Oxford, so deeply did he feel the complete though tardy recognition of the place he had made for himself among English historians.  Otherwise he was the most unassuming of men, simple and natural in manner, never putting himself forward, patient under the most hostile criticism which did not impugn his personal veracity.  Although the malice of Freeman did once provoke him to a retort the more deadly because it was restrained, he suffered in silence all the detraction which followed the reminiscences and the biography of Carlyle.  His temper was singularly placable, and he bore no malice.  His father and his eldest brother had not treated him wisely or kindly.  But neither of Hurrell Froude nor of the Archdeacon did he ever speak except with admiration and respect.  His early training hardened him, and perhaps accounts for the indifference to cruelty which sometimes disfigures his pages.  He did not know what a mother’s affection was before he had a wife and children of his own.  Before he became an honour to his family he was regarded as a disgrace to it, and not until the first two volumes of the History appeared did his father believe that there was any good in him.  Yet the Archdeacon was always his ideal clergyman, and the Church of England as it stood before the Oxford Movement was his model communion.  With the Evangelical party, represented to him by his Irish friend, Mr. Cleaver, he had sympathetic relations, and practical, though not doctrinal, agreement.  His temporary leaning towards Tractarianism was no more than personal admiration for Newman, and he took orders not because he was a High Churchman, but because he was a Fellow.  Yet it was in some respects a fortunate accident, which, by shutting him out from other professions, drove him into literature.  Fiction he soon learned to avoid, for his early experiments in it were failures, and in later years his least successful book, with all its eloquence, was The Two Chiefs of Dunboy.  As an historical writer he has few superiors, and his essays are among the most delightful in our tongue.  To analyse his style is as difficult as not to feel the charm of it.  It is as smooth as the motion of a ship sailing on a calm sea, and yet it is never fiat nor tame.

Although Froude, like Newman, belonged to the Oriel school, he has a spirit which is not of any school, which breathes from the wide ocean and the liquid air.  He wrote, for all his scholarly grace, like a man of flesh and blood, not a pedant nor a doctrinaire.  Impartial he never was, nor pretended to be.  Dramatic he could not help being, and yet his own opinions were seldom concealed.  Three or four main propositions were at the root of his mind.  He held the Reformation