But the rebellious young man did not return.  After Christmas, 1872, his schoolboy letters reveal him at Randolph-Macon College in Ashland, Va.  Here again the atmosphere is Methodistical, but of a somewhat more genial type.  “It was at Ashland that I first began to unfold,” said Page afterward.  “Dear old Ashland!” Dr. Duncan, the President, was a clergyman whose pulpit oratory is still a tradition in the South, but, in addition to his religious exaltation, he was an exceedingly lovable, companionable, and stimulating human being.  Certainly there was no lack of the religious impulse.  “We have a preacher president,” Page writes his mother, “a preacher secretary, a preacher chaplain, and a dozen preacher students and three or more preachers are living here and twenty-five or thirty yet-to-be preachers in college!” In this latter class Page evidently places himself; at least he gravely writes his mother—­he was now eighteen—­that he had definitely made up his mind to enter the Methodist ministry.  He had a close friend—­Wilbur Fisk Tillett—­who cherished similar ambitions, and Page one day surprised Tillett by suggesting that, at the approaching Methodist Conference, they apply for licensing as “local preachers” for the next summer.  His friend dissuaded him, however, and henceforth Page concentrated on more worldly studies.  In many ways he was the life of the undergraduate body.  His desire for an immediate theological campaign was merely that passion for doing things and for self-expression which were always conspicuous traits.  His intense ambition as a boy is still remembered in this sleepy little village.  He read every book in the sparse college library; he talked to his college mates and his professors on every imaginable subject; he led his associates in the miniature parliament—­the Franklin Debating Society—­to which he belonged; he wrote prose and verse at an astonishing rate; he explored the country for miles around, making frequent pilgrimages to the birthplace of Henry Clay, which is the chief historical glory of Ashland, and to that Hanover Court House which was the scene of the oratorical triumph of Patrick Henry; he flirted with the pretty girls in the village, and even had two half-serious love affairs in rapid succession; he slept upon a hard mattress at night and imbibed more than the usual allotment of Greek, Latin, and mathematics in the daytime.  One year he captured the Greek prize and the next the Sutherlin medal for oratory.  With a fellow classicist he entered into a solemn compact to hold all their conversation, even on the most trivial topics, in Latin, with heavy penalties for careless lapses into English.  Probably the linguistic result would have astonished Quintilian, but the experiment at least had a certain influence in improving the young man’s Latinity.  Another favourite dissipation was that of translating English masterpieces into the ancient tongue; there still survives among Page’s early papers a copy of Bryant’s “Waterfowl” done into Latin iambics.  As to Page’s personal appearance, a designation coined by a fellow student who afterward became a famous editor gives the suggestion of a portrait.  He called him one of the “seven slabs” of the college.  And, as always, the adjectives which his contemporaries chiefly use in describing Page are “alert” and “positive.”