But he never, as they sometimes do, falls into loose and slipshod writing.

He was the fine flower of the old Oxford education, growing in hedged gardens, sheltered from the winds of heaven, such as Catullus painted in everlasting colours long centuries ago.

Froude was a man of the world, who knew the classics, and the minds of men, and cities, and governments, and the various races which make up the medley of the universe.

He wrote for the multitude who read books for relaxation, who want to have their facts clearly stated, and their thinking done for them.

He satisfied all their requirements, and yet he expressed himself with the natural eloquence of a fastidious scholar.