comfort came to those "who dwell at ease in Zion" in his quasi-assumption of primitive monotheism in the "High Gods" and "All Fathers" of lower races, on which the artillery of Mr. Sidney Hartland made havoc wellnigh as complete as were the effects of his own onslaught on the mythological theories of Max Müller and Herbert Spencer.
As for the man, apart from the writer, de mortuis nil nisi verum. Some of the obituaries,—that of The Times, for example,—speak of "a touch of superciliousness in his manner," and of an aloofness which barred intimacy. These were present, but they were only skin-deep, thin as the epiderm. Once penetrated, the warm human blood was felt, and if Andrew Lang was not of the rare company who have a genius for friendship, those who came to know him longest learned to appreciate him most. This was my experience, and the testimony may have more weight because our points of view sometimes differed fundamentally, and there was more than one skirmish between us. These only emphasised many kindly acts,—not least among them the thankless task, voluntarily offered, of reading one's proofs. I know that sometimes he gave offence by the tone of his reviews, the temptation to banter being too great to be resisted. But he bore no malice; and they who submit their wares to the critic must not be too squeamish over the verdict. Andrew Lang well and worthily maintained the high traditions of his calling, and in the sweetness and purity of home life he kept himself "unspotted from the world." He died at Banchory, and rests, "Life's tired-out guest," under the shadow of the ruined cathedral of his beloved St. Andrews.
