success was much below his deserts.  For my own part, I remember my tutor saying, “Don’t write as if you were writing for a penny paper.”  Alas, it was “a prediction, cruel, smart.”  But, “as yet no sin was dreamed.”

At my own college we had to write weekly essays, alternately in English and Latin.  This might have been good literary training, but I fear the essays were not taken very seriously.  The chief object was to make the late learned Dr. Scott bound on his chair by paradoxes.  But nobody ever succeeded.  He was experienced in trash.  As for what may be called unacademic literature, there were not many essays in that art.  There have been very literary generations, as when Corydon and Thyrsis “lived in Oxford as if it had been a great country house;” so Corydon confessed.  Probably many of the poems by Mr. Matthew Arnold and many of Mr. Swinburne’s early works were undergraduate poems.  A later generation produced “Love in Idleness,” a very pleasing volume.  But the gods had not made us poetical.  In those days I remember picking up, in the Union Reading-room, a pretty white quarto, “Atalanta in Calydon,” by A. C. Swinburne.  Only once had I seen Mr. Swinburne’s name before, signing a brief tale in Once a Week.  “Atalanta” was a revelation; there was a new and original poet here, a Balliol man, too.  In my own mind “Atalanta” remains the best, the most beautiful, the most musical of Mr. Swinburne’s many poems.  He instantly became the easily parodied model of undergraduate versifiers.

Swinburnian prize poems, even, were attempted, without success.  As yet we had not seen Mr. Matthew Arnold’s verses.  I fell in love with them, one long vacation, and never fell out of love.  He is not, and cannot be, the poet of the wide world, but his charm is all the more powerful over those whom he attracts and subdues.  He is the one Oxford poet of Oxford, and his “Scholar Gypsy” is our “Lycidas.”  At this time he was Professor of Poetry; but, alas, he lectured just at the hour when wickets were pitched on Cowley Marsh, and I never was present at his discourses, at his humorous prophecies of England’s fate, which are coming all too true.  So many weary lectures had to be attended, could not be “cut,” that we abstained from lectures of supererogation, so to speak.  For the rest there was no “literary movement” among contemporary undergraduates.  They read for the schools, and they rowed and played cricket.  We had no poets, except the stroke of the Corpus boat, Mr. Bridges, and he concealed his courtship of the Muse.  Corpus is a small college, but Mr. Bridges pulled its boat to the proud place of second on the river.  B. N. C. was the head boat, and even B. N. C. did Corpus bump.  But the triumph was brief.  B. N. C. made changes in its crew, got a new ship, drank the foaming grape, and bumped Corpus back.  I think they went head next year, but not that year.  Thus Mr. Bridges, as Kingsley advises, was doing noble deeds, not dreaming them, at that moment.

There existed a periodical entirely devoted to verse, but nobody knew anybody who wrote in it.  A comic journal was started; I remember the pride with which when a freshman, I received an invitation to join its councils as an artist.  I was to do the caricatures of all things.  Now, methought, I shall meet the Oxford wits of whom I have read.  But the wits were unutterably disappointing, and the whole thing died early and not lamented.  Only one piece of academic literature obtained and deserved success.  This was The Oxford Spectator, a most humorous little periodical, in shape and size like Addison’s famous journal.  The authors were Mr. Reginald Copleston, now Bishop of Colombo, Mr. Humphry Ward, and Mr. Nolan, a great athlete, who died early.  There have been good periodicals since; many amusing things occur in the Echoes from the Oxford Magazine, but the Spectator was the flower of academic journals.  “When I look back to my own experience,” says the Spectator, “I find one scene, of all Oxford, most deeply engraved upon ‘the mindful tablets of my soul.’  And yet not a scene, but a fairy compound of smell and sound, and sight and thought.  The wonderful scent of the meadow air just above Iffley, on a hot May evening, and the gay colours of twenty boats along the shore, the poles all stretched out from the bank to set the boats clear, and the sonorous cries of ‘ten seconds more,’ all down from the green barge to the lasher.  And yet that unrivalled moment is only typical of all the term; the various elements of beauty and pleasure are concentrated there.”

Unfortunately, life at Oxford is not all beauty and pleasure.  Things go wrong somehow.  Life drops her happy mask.  But this has nothing to do with books.

About books, however, I have not many more confessions that I care to make.  A man’s old self is so far away that he can speak about it and its adventures almost as if he were speaking about another who is dead.  After taking one’s degree, and beginning to write a little for publication, the topic has a tendency to become much more personal.  My last undergraduate literary discoveries were of France and the Renaissance.  Accidentally finding out that I could read French, I naturally betook myself to Balzac.  If you read him straight on, without a dictionary, you begin to learn a good many words.  The literature of France has been much more popular in England lately, but thirty years agone it was somewhat neglected.  There does seem to be something in French poetry which fails to please “the German paste in our composition.”  Mr. Matthew Arnold, a disciple of Sainte-Beuve, never could appreciate French poetry.  A poet-critic has even remarked that the French language is nearly incapable of poetry!  We cannot argue in such matters, where all depends on the taste and the ear.

Our ancestors, like the author of the “Faery Queen,” translated and admired Du Bellay and Ronsard; to some critics of our own time this taste seems a modish affectation.  For one, I have ever found an original charm in the lyrics of the Pleiad, and have taken great delight in Hugo’s amazing variety of music, in the romance of Alfred de Musset, in the beautiful cameos of Gautier.  What is poetical, if not the “Song of Roland,” the only true national epic since Homer?  What is frank, natural verse, if not that of the old Pastourelles?  Where is there naïveté of narrative and unconscious charm, if not in Aucassin et Nicolette?  In the long normally developed literature of France, so variously rich, we find the nearest analogy to the literature of Greece, though that of England contains greater masterpieces, and her verse falls more winningly on the ear.  France has no Shakespeare and no Milton; we have no Molière and no “Song of Roland.”  One star differs from another in glory, but it is a fortunate moment when this planet of France swims into our ken.  Many of our generation saw it first through Mr. Swinburne’s telescope, heard of it in his criticisms, and are grateful to that watcher of the skies, even if we do not share all his transports.  There then arose at Oxford, out of old French, and old oak, and old china, a “school” or “movement.”  It was æsthetic, and an early purchaser of Mr. William Morris’s wall papers.  It existed ten or twelve years before the public “caught on,” as they say, to these delights.  But, except one or two of the masters, the school were only playing at æsthetics, and laughing at their own performances.  There was more fun than fashion in the cult, which was later revived, developed, and gossiped about more than enough.

To a writer now dead, and then first met, I am specially bound in gratitude—the late Mr. J. F. M’Lennan.  Mr. M’Lennan had the most acute and ingenious of minds which I have encountered.  His writings on early marriage and early religion were revelations which led on to