life. He wore no hair shirt; I doubt if he knew the taste of
the Discipline. He had his weaknesses, his foibles--even, if
you will, his vices. I have intimated that he was fond of a
jest. "The Sacred College," I heard him remark one day, "has
fifty centres of gravity. I sometimes fear that I am its
centre of levity." He was also fond of music. He was also
fond of snuff:

"'T is an abominable habit," he admitted. "I can't tolerate it
at all--in others. When I was Bishop of Cittareggio, I
discountenanced it utterly among my clergy. But for myself--I
need not say there are special circumstances. Oddly enough, by
the bye, at Cittareggio each separate member of my clergy was
able to plead special circumstances for himself I have tried to
give it up, and the effort has spoiled my temper--turned me
into a perfect old shrew. For my friends' sake, therefore, I
appease myself with an occasional pinch. You see, tobacco is
antiseptic. It's an excellent preservative of the milk of
human kindness."

The friends in question kept him supplied with sound rappee.
Jests and music he was abundantly competent to supply himself.
He played the piano and the organ, and he sang--in a clear,
sweet, slightly faded tenor. Of secular composers his
favourites were "the lucid Scarlatti, the luminous Bach." But
the music that roused him to enthusiasm was Gregorian. He
would have none other at St. Mary of the Lilies. He had
trained his priests and his people there to sing it admirably
--you should have heard them sing Vespers; and he sang it
admirably himself--you should have heard him sing a Mass--you