When Milsom enrolled Maitland among the British Academy's Master-Minds, he drew attention to a number of rather strange things about him. Other than Rhys and Keynes, unfairly advantaged in so far as they are commemorated by whole lecture series, Maitland is the sole Academy Fellow to have been the subject of one lecture, let alone (as is now the case) of two. He is also one of very few historians. Alongside Maitland are ranked only Thucydides, Bede, Gibbon, Kemble, Carlyle, Burckhardt, and Bémont—an assortment that would have bemused him as much as the eminence he was thus assigned. But, oddest of all, his repute is of a wholly different order from that of his fellow founders of the Academy, or of the historians it has dignified. It is not just that he is consulted and recycled, unlike Cunningham or Pollock (his joint venture with Maitland apart). They, like Gibbon, Bede, and the rest, are now a chapter in historiography, historical phenomena themselves requiring explanation. We may seek information, even (in some cases) entertainment from them. We do not debate with them as we argue with Maitland. That is what Milsom went on to do. It was, of course, a far greater compliment than that conveyed by the title of Academy Master-Mind. It is also one that would beyond question have been more congenial to Maitland himself. He would have been appalled by his canonization, as Milsom has repeatedly stressed. To adumbrate a motif that will recur in these remarks, he had a Millite faith in the creativity of dissent. The honor done him was to treat a scholar who had been in his Canary Islands grave for the best part of a century as if he were a contemporary colleague.