has written the sacred book of friendship, that has lulled us with the magic of the “Lotus Eaters,” and the melody of “Tithonus.”  He has made us move, like his own Prince—

   “Among a world of ghosts,
And feel ourselves the shadows of a dream.”

He has enriched our world with conquests of romance; he has recut and reset a thousand ancient gems of Greece and Rome; he has roused our patriotism; he has stirred our pity; there is hardly a human passion but he has purged it and ennobled it, including “this of love.”  Truly, the Laureate remains the most various, the sweetest, the most exquisite, the most learned, the most Virgilian of all English poets, and we may pity the lovers of poetry who died before Tennyson came.

Here may end the desultory tale of a desultory bookish boyhood.  It was not in nature that one should not begin to rhyme for one’s self.  But those exercises were seldom even written down; they lived a little while in a memory which has lost them long ago.  I do remember me that I tried some of my attempts on my dear mother, who said much what Dryden said to “Cousin Swift,” “You will never be a poet,” a decision in which I straightway acquiesced.  For to rhyme is one thing, to be a poet quite another.  A good deal of mortification would be avoided if young men and maidens only kept this obvious fact well posed in front of their vanity and their ambition.

In these bookish memories I have said nothing about religion and religious books, for various reasons.  But, unlike other Scots of the pen, I got no harm from “The Shorter Catechism,” of which I remember little, and neither then nor now was or am able to understand a single sentence.  Some precocious metaphysicians comprehended and stood aghast at justification, sanctification, adoption, and effectual calling.  These, apparently, were necessary processes in the Scottish spiritual life.  But we were not told what they meant, nor were we distressed by a sense that we had not passed through them.  From most children, one trusts, Calvinism ran like water off a duck’s back; unlucky were they who first absorbed, and later were compelled to get rid of, “The Shorter Catechism!”

One good thing, if no more, these memories may accomplish.  Young men, especially in America, write to me and ask me to recommend “a course of reading.”  Distrust a course of reading!  People who really care for books read all of them.  There is no other course.  Let this be a reply.  No other answer shall they get from me, the inquiring young men.

II

People talk, in novels, about the delights of a first love.  One may venture to doubt whether everybody exactly knows which was his, or her, first love, of men or women, but about our first loves in books there can be no mistake.  They were, and remain, the dearest of all; after boyhood the bloom is off the literary rye.  The first parcel of these garrulities ended when the author left school, at about the age of seventeen.  One’s literary equipment seems to have been then almost as complete as it ever will be, one’s tastes definitely formed, one’s favourites already chosen.  As long as we live we hope to read, but we never can “recapture the first fine careless rapture.”  Besides, one begins to write, and that is fatal.  My own first essays were composed at school—for other boys.  Not long ago the gentleman who was then our English master wrote to me, informing me he was my earliest public, and that he had never credited my younger brother with the essays which that unscrupulous lad (“I speak of him but brotherly”) was accustomed to present for his consideration.

On leaving school at seventeen I went to St. Leonard’s Hall, in the University of St. Andrews.  That is the oldest of Scotch universities, and was founded by a papal bull.  St. Leonard’s Hall, after having been a hospitium for pilgrims, a home for old ladies (about 1500), and a college in the University, was now a kind of cross between a master’s house at school, and, as before 1750, a college.  We had more liberty than schoolboys, less than English undergraduates.  In the Scotch universities the men live scattered, in lodgings, and only recently, at St. Andrews, have they begun to dine together in hall.  We had a common roof, common dinners, wore scarlet gowns, possessed football and cricket clubs, and started, of course, a kind of weekly magazine.  It was only a manuscript affair, and was profusely illustrated.  For the only time in my life, I was now an editor, under a sub-editor, who kept me up to my work, and cut out my fine passages.  The editor’s duty was to write most of the magazine—to write essays, reviews (of books by the professors, very severe), novels, short stories, poems, translations, also to illustrate these, and to “fag” his friends for “copy” and drawings.  A deplorable flippancy seems, as far as one remembers, to have been the chief characteristic of the periodical—flippancy and an abundant use of the supernatural.  These were the days of Lord’ Lytton’s “Strange Story,” which I continue to think a most satisfactory romance.  Inspired by Lord Lytton, and aided by the University library, I read Cornelius Agrippa, Trithemius, Petrus de Abano, Michael Scott, and struggled with Iamblichus and Plotinus.

These are really but disappointing writers.  It soon became evident enough that the devil was not to be raised by their prescriptions, that the philosopher’s stone was beyond the reach of the amateur.  Iamblichus is particularly obscure and tedious.  To any young beginner I would recommend Petrus de Abano, as the most adequate and gruesome of the school, for “real deevilry and pleesure,” while in the wilderness of Plotinus there are many beautiful passages and lofty speculations.  Two winters in the Northern University, with the seamy side of school life left behind, among the kindest of professors—Mr. Sellar, Mr. Ferrier, Mr. Shairp—in the society of the warden, Mr. Rhoades, and of many dear old friends, are the happiest time in my life.  This was true literary leisure, even if it was not too well employed, and the religio loci should be a liberal education in itself.  We had debating societies—I hope I am now forgiven for an attack on the character of Sir William Wallace, latro quidam, as the chronicler calls him, “a certain brigand.”  But I am for ever writing about St. Andrews—writing inaccurately, too, the Scotch critics declare.  “Farewell,” we cried, “dear city of youth and dream,” eternally dear and sacred.

Here we first made acquaintance with Mr. Browning, guided to his works by a parody which a lady wrote in our little magazine.  Mr. Browning was not a popular poet in 1861.  His admirers were few, a little people, but they were not then in the later mood of reverence, they did not awfully question the oracles, as in after years.  They read, they admired, they applauded, on occasion they mocked, good-humouredly.  The book by which Mr. Browning was best known was the two green volumes of “Men and Women.”  In these, I still think, is the heart of his genius beating most strenuously and with an immortal vitality.  Perhaps this, for its compass, is the collection of poetry the most various and rich of modern English times, almost of any English times.  But just as Mr. Fitzgerald cared little for what Lord Tennyson wrote after 1842, so I have never been able to feel quite the same enthusiasm for Mr. Browning’s work after “Men and Women.”  He seems to have more influence, though that influence is vague, on persons who chiefly care for thought, than on those who chiefly care for poetry.  I have met a lady who had read “The Ring and the Book” often, the “Lotus Eaters” not once.  Among such students are Mr. Browning’s disciples of the Inner Court: I dwell but in the Court of the Gentiles.  While we all—all who attempt rhyme—have more or