college life was mainly one of study; in addition to working for
his classical examinations, he devoured with voracity all the best
English writers.

"He was an intense admirer of Swinburne and constantly reading his
poems; John Addington Symond's works too, on the Greek authors, were
perpetually in his hands. He never entertained any pronounced views on
social, religious or political questions while in College; he seemed
to be altogether devoted to literary matters.

"He mixed freely at the same time in Dublin society functions of all
kinds, and was always a very vivacious and welcome guest at any house
he cared to visit. All through his Dublin University days he was one
of the purest minded men that could be met with.

"He was not a card player, but would on occasions join in a game of
limited loo at some man's rooms. He was also an extremely moderate
drinker. He became a member of the junior debating society, the
Philosophical, but hardly ever took any part in their discussions.

[Illustration: Dr. Sir William Wilde]

"He read for the Berkeley medal (which he afterwards gained) with an
excellent, but at the same time broken-down, classical scholar, John
Townsend Mills, and, besides instruction, he contrived to get a good
deal of amusement out of his readings with his quaint teacher. He
told me for instance that on one occasion he expressed his sympathy
for Mills on seeing him come into his rooms wearing a tall hat
completely covered in crape. Mills, however, replied, with a smile,
that no one was dead--it was only the evil condition of his hat that
had made him assume so mournful a disguise. I have often thought that
the incident was still fresh in Oscar Wilde's mind when he introduced
John Worthing in 'The Importance of Being Earnest,' in mourning for
his fictitious brother....

"Shortly before he started on his first trip to Italy, he came into my
rooms in a very striking pair of trousers. I made some chaffing remark
on them, but he begged me in the most serious style of which he was so
excellent a master not to jest about them.

"'They are my Trasimene trousers, and I mean to wear them there.'"

Already his humour was beginning to strike all his acquaintances, and
what Sir Edward Sullivan here calls his "puremindedness," or what I
should rather call his peculiar refinement of nature. No one ever
heard Oscar Wilde tell a suggestive story; indeed he always shrank
from any gross or crude expression; even hi