 new publications recommended to him in
the literary paper which again taxed his stomach. Mere class-work did not
satisfy him. He was possessed with throes of spiritual desire, impelling him
towards that world of unfettered speculation which he had long indistinctly
imagined. It was a great thing to learn what the past could teach, to set
himself on the common level of intellectual men; but he understood that college
learning could not be an end in itself, that the Professors to whom he listened
either did not speak out all that was in their minds, or, if they did, were far
from representing the advanced guard of modern thought. With eagerness he at
length betook himself to the teachers of philosophy and of geology. Having paid
for these lectures out of his own pocket, he felt as if he had won a privilege
beyond the conventional course of study, an initiation to a higher sphere of
intellect. The result was disillusion. Not even in these class-rooms could he
hear the word for which he waited, the bold annunciation of newly discovered
law, the science which had completely broken with tradition. He came away
unsatisfied, and brooded upon the possibilities which would open for him when he
was no longer dependent.
    His evening work at home was subject to a disturbance which would have led
him to seek other lodgings, could he have hoped to find any so cheap as these.
The landlady's son, a lank youth of the clerk species, was wont to amuse himself
from eight to ten with practice on a piano. By dint of perseverance he had
learned to strum two or three hymnal melodies popularised by American
evangelists; occasionally he even added the charm of his voice, which had a
pietistic nasality not easily endured by an ear of any refinement. Not only was
Godwin harassed by the recurrence of these performances; the tunes worked
themselves into his brain, and sometimes throughout a whole day their burden
clanged and squalled incessantly on his mental hearing. He longed to entreat
forbearance from the musician, but an excess of delicacy - which always ruled
his behaviour - kept him silent. Certain passages in the classics, and many an
elaborate mathematical formula, long retained for him an association with the
cadences of revivalist hymnody.
    Like all proud natures condemned to solitude, he tried to convince himself
that he had no need of society, that he despised its attractions, and could be
self-sufficing. So far was this from the truth that he often regarded with
bitter envy those of his fellow-students who had the social air, who conversed
freely among their equals, and showed that the pursuits
