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 less consciously imitated the manner of Lord Tennyson, Mr. Swinburne, Mr. Rossetti, such imitations of Mr. Browning are uncommonly scarce.  He is lucky enough not to have had the seed of his flower stolen and sown everywhere till—­

   “Once again the people
   Called it but a weed.”

The other new poet of these days was Mr. Clough, who has many undergraduate qualities.  But his peculiar wistful scepticism in religion had then no influence on such of us as were still happily in the ages of faith.  Anything like doubt comes less of reading, perhaps, than of the sudden necessity which, in almost every life, puts belief on her trial, and cries for an examination of the creeds hitherto held upon authority, and by dint of use and wont.  In a different way one can hardly care for Mr. Matthew Arnold, as a boy, till one has come under the influence of Oxford.  So Mr. Browning was the only poet added to my pantheon at St. Andrews, though Macaulay then was admitted and appeared to be more the true model of a prose writer than he seems in the light of later reflection.  Probably we all have a period of admiring Carlyle almost exclusively.  College essays, when the essayist cares for his work, are generally based on