Saved from being thought a 'smug,' by his title, his
lack of any conspicuous scholastic ability, his obvious independence of
what was thought of him, and a sarcastic tongue, which no one was
eager to encounter, he remained the ugly duckling who refused to paddle
properly in the green ponds of Public School tradition. He played games
so badly that in sheer self-defence his fellows permitted him to play
without them. Of 'fives' they made an exception, for in this he attained
much proficiency, owing to a certain windmill-like quality of limb. He
was noted too for daring chemical experiments, of which he usually had
one or two brewing, surreptitiously at first, and afterwards by special
permission of his house-master, on the principle that if a room must
smell, it had better smell openly. 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.
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