the
College. He had a passion for success--for beating everybody else
in whatever he took in hand, and that, too, without seeming to
make any great effort himself. The doing a thing well and
thoroughly gave him no satisfaction unless he could feel that he
was doing it better and more easily than A, B, or C, and they
felt and acknowledged this. He had had full swing of success for
two years, and now the Nemesis was coming.

For, although not an extravagant man, many of the pursuits in
which he has eclipsed all rivals were far beyond the means of any
but a rich one, and Blake was not rich. He had a fair allowance,
but by the end of his first year was considerably in debt, and,
at the time we are speaking of, the whole pack of Oxford
tradesmen into whose books he had got (having smelt out the
leaness of his expectations), were upon him, besieging him for
payment. This miserable and constant annoyance was wearing his
soul out. This was the reason why his oak was sported, and he was
never seen till the afternoons, and turned night into day. He was
too proud to come to an understanding with his persecutors, even
had it been possible; and now, at his sorest need, his whole
scheme of life was failing him; his love of success was turning
into ashes in his mouth; he felt much more disgust than pleasure
at his triumphs over other men, and yet the habit of striving for
successes, notwithstanding its irksomeness, was too strong to be
resisted.

Poor Blake! he was living on from hand to mouth, flashing out in
his old brilliancy and power, and forcing himself to take the
lead in whatever company he might be; but utterly lonely and
depressed when by himself--reading feverishly in secret, in a
desperate effort to retrieve all by high honors and a fellowship.
As Tom said to his neighbor, there was no sadder face than his to
be seen in Oxford.

And yet at this very wine party he was the life of everything, as
he sat up there between Diogenes--whom he kept in a constant sort
of mild epileptic fit, from laughter, and wine going the wrong
way (for whenever Diogenes raised his glass Blake shot him with
some joke)--and the Captain who watched him with the most
undisguised admiration. A singular contrast, the two men! Miller,
though Blake was the torment of his life, relaxed after the first
quarter of all hour; and our hero, by the same time, gave himself
credit for being a much greater ass than he was, for having ever
thought Blake's f