experience in other directions were replaced by a zeal and a
piety which were soon to prove themselves equal, and more than
equal, to whatever calls might be made upon them. The
superabundance of his piety overflowed into verse; and the holy
simplicity of the Christian Year carried his name into the
remotest lodging-houses of England.

As for his zeal, however, it needed another outlet. Looking forth
upon the doings of his fellow-men through his rectory windows in
Gloucestershire, Keble felt his whole soul shaken with loathing,
anger, and dread. Infidelity was stalking through the land;
authority was laughed at; the hideous doctrines of Democracy were
being openly preached. Worse still, if possible, the Church
herself was ignorant and lukewarm; she had forgotten the
mysteries of the sacraments, she had lost faith in the
Apostolical Succession; she was no longer interested in the Early
Fathers; and she submitted herself to the control of a secular
legislature, the members of which were not even bound to profess
belief in the Atonement. In the face of such enormities what
could Keble do? He was ready to do anything, but he was a simple
and an unambitious man, and his wrath would in all probability
have consumed itself unappeased within him had he not chanced to
come into contact, at the critical moment, with a spirit more
excitable and daring than his own.

Hurrell Froude, one of Keble's pupils, was a clever young man to
whom had fallen a rather larger share of self-assurance and
intolerance than even clever young men usually possess. What was
singular about him, however, was not so much his temper as his
tastes. The sort of ardour which impels more normal youths to