author of the Evening Hymn; and near them the great itinerant preacher, hymn-writer, and zealot, shadowed like Jude by his matrimonial difficulties.
Jude found himself speaking out loud, holding conversations with them, as it were, like an actor in a melodrama who apostrophizes the audience on the other side of the footlights; till he suddenly ceased with a start at his absurdity. Perhaps those incoherent words of the wanderer were heard within the walls by some student or thinker over his lamp; and he may have raised his head, and wondered what voice it was, and what it betokened. Jude now perceived that, so far as solid flesh went, he had the whole aged city to himself, with the exception of a belated townsman here and there, and that he seemed to be catching a cold.
A voice reached him out of the shade; a real and local voice:
"You've been a-settin' a long time on that plinthstone, young man. What med you be up to?"
It came from a policeman who had been observing Jude without the latter observing him.
Jude went home and to bed, after reading up a little about these men and their several messages to the world from a book or two that he had brought with him concerning the sons of the University. As he drew towards sleep various memorable words of theirs that he had just been conning seemed spoken by them in muttering utterances; some audible, some unintelligible to him. One of the spectres (who afterwards railed at Christminster as "the home of lost causes," though Jude did not remember this) was now apostrophizing her thus:
"Beautiful city! so valuable, so lovely, so unravaged by the fierce intellectual life of our century; so serene!... Her ineffable charm keeps ever calling us to the true goal of all of us, to the ideal, to perfection."
Another voice was that of the Corn Law convert, whose phantom he had just seen in the quadrangle with
