f my
colleagues, Murchison by name--you don't know him--a big, rugged, shy,
sociable fellow, who is in many ways one of the best masters here. He
is always friendly, amusing, courteous. He holds strong opinions, which
he does not produce unless the occasion demands it. He keeps a good
deal to himself, follows his own pursuits, and knows his own mind. He
is very tolerant, and can get on with almost everybody. The boys
respect him, like his teaching, think him clever, sensible, and
amusing. There are a great many things about which he knows nothing,
and is always ready to confess his ignorance. But whenever he does
understand a subject, and he has a strong taste for art and letters,
you always feel that his thoughts and opinions are fresh and living.
They are not produced like sardines from a tin, with a painful
similarity and regularity. He has strong prejudices, for which he can
always give a reason; but he is always ready to admit that it is a
matter of taste. He does not tilt in a Quixotic manner at established
things, but he goes along trying to do his work in the best manner
attainable. He is no genius, and his character is by no means a perfect
one; he has pronounced faults, of which he is perfectly conscious, and
which he never attempts to disguise. But he is simple, straightforward,
affectionate, and sincere. If he were more courageous, more fiery, he
would be, I think, a really great man; but this he somehow misses.

The two men, Foster and Murchison, are as great a contrast as can well
be imagined. They serve to illustrate exactly what I mean. Our friend
Foster is perfectly correct and admirably pleasant. You would never
think of confiding in him, or saying to him what you really felt; but,
on the other hand, there is no one whom I would more willingly consult
in a small and delicate point of practical conduct--and his advice
would be excellent.

But Murchison is a real man; he knows his limitations, but he takes
nothing second-hand. He brings his own mind and character to bear on
every problem, and judges people and things on their own merits.

Of course one does not desire that conventional people should strive
after unconventionality. That produces the most sickening
conventionality of all, because it is merely an attempt to construct a
pose that shall be accepted as unconventional. The only thing is to be
natural; and, after all, if one merely desires to see how the cat jumps
and then to jump after it, i