too much love of living,
From hope and fear set free;
We thank with brief thanksgiving
Whatever gods may be
That no life lives for ever,
That dead men rise up never,
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea."

Then, like a man waking up from a dream, Swinburne turned to our host
and said, nervously, "Can you give me another glass of port?" His glass
was filled, he emptied it at a single draught, and then lay back in his
chair like a child who had gone to sleep, the actual fact being, as his
host soon recognized, that, in homely language, he was drunk.

Drink, indeed, was Swinburne's great enemy. He had, when I met him at
Balliol, finished his own career there more than twelve years ago; but
he had since then been a frequent guest of the Master's, who treated
him, in respect of this weakness, with a watchful and paternal care.
When I dined with him at the Master's Lodge there was nothing to tempt
him but a little claret and water. The consequence was that afterward he
was brilliant as the burning bush till he finally went in his sober
senses to bed. He was not, I think, intemperate in the sense that he
drank much. His misfortune was that a very little intoxicated him.

I associate my early days at Balliol with yet another memorable meeting.
One of the most prominent and dignified of the then residents at Oxford
was Sir Henry Acland, who, as a Devonshire man, knew many of my
relations, and had also heard something about myself. He was a friend
and entertainer of men of all sorts of eminence; and while I was still
more or less a freshman he invited me to join at his house a very small
company in the evening, the star of the occasion being a university
lecturer on art, who was just entering on his office, and whose name was
illustrious wherever the English language was spoken. He, too, knew
something about me, having been shown some of my verses, and to meet him
was one of my cherished dreams. Only half a dozen people were present,
and from a well-known portrait of him by Millais I recognized his form
at once. This was Ruskin. He had sent me, through Lord Houghton or
somebody, a verbal message of poetic appreciation already. I was now
meeting him in the flesh. The first thing in him which struck me was
the irresistible fascination of his manner. It was a manner absolutely
and almost plaintively simple, but that of no diplomat or courtier could
be more polish