had shared Shelley’s fate three years previously. It is said that Mrs Williams insisted upon Hogg’s preparing himself for the union, or perhaps we should rather say, proving his devotion, by a course of foreign travel. Hogg undertook the ordeal, voluntarily depriving himself of three things, each of which, to use his own words, “daily habit had taught me to consider a prime necessary of life—law, Greek, and an English newspaper.” In 1827 he published the record of his tour in two volumes, entitled Two Hundred and Nine Days; or, The Journal of a Traveller on the Continent, which, so far from illustrating the anguish of hope deferred, is a storehouse of shrewd and cynical observation.

In 1833 Hogg was appointed one of the Municipal Corporation Commissioners for England and Wales, and for many years he acted as Revising Barrister for Northumberland, Berwick and the Northern Boroughs. About 1855 he was commissioned by the Shelley family to write the poet’s biography and was furnished with the necessary papers. In 1858 he produced the two extant volumes, which proved so little satisfactory to Shelley’s representatives that the materials for the continuation of his task were withdrawn and the work interrupted, never to be resumed. Hogg died in 1862. He was a man of varied culture; in knowledge of Greek few scholars of his time surpassed him, and he was well read in German, French, Italian and Spanish. He was a fair botanist, and rejoiced to think that he was born upon the anniversary of the birth of Linnæus, for whose concise and simple style he professed a great admiration. Nevertheless it is chiefly as the friend and biographer of Shelley that he interests the present generation, and the re-publication of his account of the poet’s Oxford experiences can scarcely fail to win him new admirers.

R. A. STREATFEILD

SHELLEY AT OXFORD

CHAPTER I

What is the greatest disappointment in life? The question has often been asked. In a perfect life—that is to say, in a long course of various disappointments, when the collector has completed the entire set and series, which should he pronounce to be the greatest? What is the greatest disappointment of all? The question has often been asked, and it has received very different answers. Some have said matrimony; others, the accession of an inheritance that had long been anxiously anticipated; others, the attainment of honours; others, the deliverance from an ancient and intolerable nuisance, since a new and more grievous one speedily succeeded to the old. Many solutions have been proposed, and each has been ingeniously supported. At a very early age I had formed a splendid picture of the glories of our two Universities. My father took pleasure in describing his academical career. I listened to him with great delight, and many circumstances gave additional force to these first impressions. The clergy—and in the country they make one’s principal guests—always spoke of these establishments with deep reverence, and of their academical days as the happiest of their lives.

When I went to school, my prejudices were strengthened; for the master noticed all deficiencies in learning as being unfit, and every remarkable proficiency as being fit, for the University. Such expressions marked the utmost limits of blame and of praise. Whenever any of the elder boys were translated to college—and several went thither from our school every year—the transmission was accompanied with a certain awe. I had always contemplated my own removal with the like feeling, and as the period approached, I anticipated it with a reverent impatience. The appointed day at last arrived, and I set out with a schoolfellow, about to enter the same career, and his father. The latter was a dutiful and a most grateful son of alma mater; and the conversation of this estimable man, during our long journey, fanned the flame of my young ardour. Such, indeed, had been the effect of his discourse for many years; and as he possessed a complete collection of the Oxford Almanacks, and it had been a great and frequent gratification to contemplate the engravings at the top of the annual sheets when I visited his quiet vicarage, I was already familiar with the aspect of the noble buildings that adorn that famous city. After travelling for several days we reached the last stage, and soon afterwards approached the point whence, I was told, we might discern the first glimpse of the metropolis of learning. I strained my eyes to catch a view of that land of promise, for which I had so eagerly longed. The summits of towers and spires and domes appeared afar and faintly; then the prospect was obstructed. By degrees it opened upon us again, and we saw the tall trees that shaded the colleges. At three o’clock on a fine autumnal afternoon we entered the streets of Oxford. Although the weather was cold we had let down all the windows of our post-chaise, and I sat forward, devouring every object with greedy eyes. Members of the University, of different ages and ranks, were gliding through the quiet streets of the venerable city in academic costume.

We devoted two or three days to the careful examination of the various objects of interest that Oxford contains. The eye was gratified, for the external appearance of the University even surpassed the bright picture which my youthful imagination had painted. The outside was always admirable; it was far otherwise with the inside. It is essential to the greatness of a disappointment that the previous expectation should have been great. Nothing could exceed my young anticipations—nothing could be more complete than their overthrow. It would be impossible to describe my feelings without speaking harshly and irreverently of the venerable University. On this subject, then, I will only confess my disappointment, and discreetly be silent as to its causes. Whatever those causes, I grew, at least, and I own it cheerfully, soon pleased with Oxford, on the whole; pleased with the beauty of the city and its gentle river, and the pleasantness of the surrounding country.

Although no great facilities were afforded to the student, there were the same opportunities of solitary study as in other places. All the irksome restraints of school were removed, and those of the University are few and trifling. Our fare was good, although not so good, perhaps, as it ought to have been, in return for the enormous cost; and I liked the few companions with whom I most commonly mixed. I continued to lead a life of tranquil and studious and somewhat melancholy contentment until the long vacation, which I spent with my family; and, when it expired, I returned to the University.

At the commencement of Michaelmas term—that is, at the end of October, in the year 1810, I happened one day to sit next to a freshman at dinner. It was his first appearance in hall. His figure was slight, and his aspect remarkably youthful, even at our table, where all were very young. He seemed thoughtful and absent. He ate little, and had no acquaintance with anyone. I know not how it was that we fell into conversation, for such familiarity was unusual, and, strange to say, much reserve prevailed in a society where there could not possibly be occasion for any. We have often endeavoured in vain to recollect in what manner our discourse began, and especially by what transition it passed to a subject sufficiently remote from all the