penly. He made few friendships, but these
were lasting.

His Latin was so poor, and his Greek verse so vile, that all had been
surprised when towards the finish of his career he showed a very
considerable power of writing and speaking his own language. He left
school without a pang. But when in the train he saw the old Hill and the
old spire on the top of it fading away from him, a lump rose in his
throat, he swallowed violently two or three times, and, thrusting himself
far back into the carriage corner, appeared to sleep.

At Oxford, he was happier, but still comparatively lonely; remaining, so
long as custom permitted, in lodgings outside his College, and clinging
thereafter to remote, panelled rooms high up, overlooking the gardens and
a portion of the city wall. It was at Oxford that he first developed
that passion for self-discipline which afterwards distinguished him. He
took up rowing; and, though thoroughly unsuited by nature to this
pastime, secured himself a place in his College 'torpid.' At the end of
a race he was usually supported from his stretcher in a state of extreme
extenuation, due to having pulled the last quarter of the course entirely
with his spirit. The same craving for self-discipline guided him in the
choice of Schools; he went out in 'Greats,' for which, owing to his
indifferent mastery of Greek and Latin, he was the least fitted. With
enormous labour he took a very good degree. He carried off besides, the
highest distinctions of the University for English Essays. The ordinary
circles of College life knew nothing of him. Not once in the whole
course of his University career, was he the better for wine. He, did not
hunt; he never talked of women, and none talked of women in his presence.
But now and then he was visited by those gusts which come to the ascetic,
when all life seemed suddenly caught up and devoured by a flame burning
night and day, and going out mercifully, he knew not why, like a blown
candle. However unsocial in the proper sense of the word, he by no means
lacked company in these Oxford days. He knew many, both dons and
undergraduates. His long stride, and determined absence of direction,
had severely tried all those who could stomach so slow a pastime as
walking for the sake of talking. The country knew him--though he never
knew the country--from Abingdon to Bablock Hythe. His name stood high,
too, at the Union, where he made his mark during his first term in a