When one speaks to him of the confusion and anarchy in the religious world, and suggests how hard it is for the average man to know which way he should follow, he replies:  “Yes, I’m afraid it’s a bad time for the ordinary man.”  But then he has laid it down, “There is not the slightest probability that the largest crowd will ever be gathered in front of the narrow gate.”  Still one could wish that he felt in his heart something of the compassion of his Master for those who have taken the road of destruction.

He attaches great importance to preaching.  He does not at all agree with the sneer at “preaching-shops.”  That is a convenient sneer for the younger generation of ritualists who have nothing to say and who perform ceremonies they don’t understand; not much meaning there for the modern man.  No; preaching is a most important office, although no other form of professional work is done anything like so badly.  But a preacher who has something to say will always attract intelligent people.

One does not discuss with him the kind of preaching necessary to convert unintelligent people.  That would be to take this great philosopher out of his depth.

As for the Oxford Movement, he regards it as a changeling.  His grandfather, an archdeacon, was a Tractarian, a friend of Pusey, a scholar acquainted with all the doctors; but he was not a ritualist; he did not even adopt the eastward position.  The modern ritualist is hardly to be considered the lineal descendant of these great scholars.  “Romanticism, which dotes on ruins, shrinks from real restoration . . . a Latin Church in England which disowns the Pope is an absurdity.”

No, the future belongs to clear thinking and rigorous honesty of the intellect.

Dr. Inge began life as the fag of Bishop Ryle at Eton—­the one now occupying the Deanery of St. Paul’s; the other the Deanery of Westminster, both scholars and the friendship still remaining.  He was a shy and timorous boy.  No one anticipated the amazingly brilliant career which followed at Cambridge, and even then few suspected him of original genius until he became Lady Margaret Professor of Divinity in 1907.  His attempts to be a schoolmaster were unsuccessful.  He was not good at maintaining discipline, and deafness somewhat intensified a nervous irritability which at times puts an enormous strain on his patience.  Nor did he make any notable impression as Vicar of All Saints’, Ennismore Gardens, a parochial experience which lasted two years.  Slowly he made his way as author and lecturer, and it was not until he came to St. Paul’s that the world realised the greatness of his mind and the richness of his genius.

As a correction to the popular delusion concerning his temperament and outlook, although, I must confess, there is something about him suggestive of a London Particular, I will quote in conclusion a few of the many witty epigrams which are scattered throughout his pages, showing that he has a sense of humour which is not always discernible in those who would laugh him away as an unprofitable depressionist.