Wordsworth would have been the last man to say that he had lost his
faith in the God of his fathers. But his real God is not the God of
the Church, but the God of the hills, the abstraction Nature, and to
this my reverence was transferred. Instead of an object of worship
which was altogether artificial, remote, never coming into genuine
contact with me, I had now one which I thought to be real, one in which
literally I could live and move and have my being, an actual fact
present before my eyes. God was brought from that heaven of the books,
and dwelt on the downs in the far-away distances, and in every cloud-
shadow which wandered across the valley. Wordsworth unconsciously did
for me what every religious reformer has done--he re-created my Supreme
Divinity; substituting a new and living spirit for the old deity, once
alive, but gradually hardened into an idol.

What days were those of the next few years before increasing age had
presented preciser problems and demanded preciser answers; before all
joy was darkened by the shadow of on-coming death, and when life seemed
infinite! Those were the days when through the whole long summer's
morning I wanted no companion but myself, provided only I was in the
country, and when books were read with tears in the eyes. Those were
the days when mere life, apart from anything which it brings, was
exquisite.

In my own college I found no sympathy, but we were in the habit of
meeting occasionally the students from other colleges, and amongst them
I met with one or two, especially one who had undergone experiences
similar to my own. The friendships formed with these young men have
lasted till now, and have been the most permanent of all the
relationships of my existence. I wish not to judge others, but the
persons who to me have proved themselves most attractive, have been