one case we know that it was not, for “Henry Man, the wit, the polished man of letters” is known to delvers among dead books—­the types are immortal.  In this first essay we find in such sentences as “their sums in triple columniations, set down with formal superfluity of cyphers,” an illustration of Lamb’s wonderful use of what an antipathetic critic might term an informal superfluity of syllables.

The next essay, reflecting the atmosphere of “Oxford in the Vacation,” was written presumably during a holiday visit to the University of Cambridge, though Elia touching upon matters concerning church holidays breaks off with—­

... but I am wading out of my depths.  I am not the man to decide the limits of civil and ecclesiastical authority—­I am plain Elia—­no Selden, nor Archbishop Usher—­though at present in the thick of their books here in the heart of learning, under the shadow of mighty Bodley.

Then follows a passage eminently characteristic of Elia’s happy manner of playing with a theme: 

I can here play the gentleman, enact the student To such a one as myself, who has been defrauded in his young years of the sweet food of academic institution, nowhere is so pleasant to while away a few idle weeks at one or other of the universities.  Their vacation, too, at this time of the year, falls in pat with ours.  Here I can take my walks unmolested, and fancy myself of what degree of standing I please.  I seem admitted ad eundem.  I fetch up past opportunities.  I can rise at the chapel-bell, and dream that it rings for me.  In moods of humility I can be a Sizar, or a Servitor.  When the peacock vein rises, I strut a Gentleman Commoner.  In graver moments, I proceed Master of Arts.  Indeed I do not think I am much unlike that respectable character.  I have seen your dim-eyed vergers, and bed-makers in spectacles drop a bow or curtsey as I pass, wisely mistaking me for something of the sort.  I go about in black, which favours the notion.  Only in Christ Church reverend quadrangle I can be content to pass for nothing short of a Seraphic doctor.

The walks at these times are so much one’s own—­the tall trees of Christ’s, the groves of Magdalen!  The halls deserted, and with open doors inviting one to slip in unperceived, and pay a devoir to some Founder or noble or royal Benefactress (that should have been ours), whose portrait seems to smile upon their over-looked beadsman, and to adopt me for their own.  Then, to take a peep in by the way at the butteries, and sculleries, redolent of antique hospitality:  the immense caves of kitchens, kitchen fire-places, cordial recesses; ovens whose first pies were baked four centuries ago; and spits which have cooked for Chaucer!  Not the meanest minister among the dishes but is hallowed to me through his imagination, and the Cook goes forth a Manciple.

The next essay, “Christ’s Hospital Five