One morning he awoke a different man. He no longer confined himself to his solitary room or pored over his ponderous books.
Stamping out the last spark of foolish pride with the iron heel of an indomitable will, and disregarding the professed scorn of his college companions, he joined them, and talked with them, hoping that some day he might be able to do them good.
When they found that he was unlike the other needy scholars who, to a man, condemned those innocent luxuries which they were too poor to afford, they began to like him, in spite of his shabby clothes and the tallow candles which he burnt over his Whately and Æschylus.
By the time he had taken his degree with high honours there was not a man in the college who did not respect him, and there were many who were deeply attached to him.
Mr. Leverall was a general favourite, and it would have been strange indeed if it had been otherwise, seeing that he was so unassuming, so gentle and kind to all who came within his influence. The old adage of “winning golden opinions from all sorts of people” might be applied to him.
He had studied hard, was an enthusiast, and looked hopefully to the future. But man’s hopes are not at all times destined to be fulfilled—indeed, but too frequently the reverse is the case.
His mother spoke to him of those distant and almost unknown lands, where savages, with wandering feet and restless hearts, existed in a state of barbarism.
His imagination was fired by the idea of treading where no white foot had ever trod before, of encountering dangers, of civilising a whole nation to the science and commerce of man, and of leading it to the right faith.
A new society had been formed, who were preparing a crusade against the wooden idols of some obscure Indian tribe in South America.
He applied for the post of missionary. His fame and learning and the great eulogiums which his tutors had passed upon his character obtained him the appointment.