ot. He had a
great notion of loving every one--of looking kindly on every one; he was
pierced with the sentiment which he had seen in a popular volume of
poetry, that--

"Christian souls, ...
Though worn and soil'd with sinful clay,
Are yet, to eyes that see them true,
All glistening with baptismal dew."

He liked, as he walked along the road, and met labourer or horseman,
gentleman or beggar, to say to himself, "He is a Christian." And when he
came to Oxford, he came there with an enthusiasm so simple and warm as
to be almost childish. He reverenced even the velvet of the Pro.; nay,
the cocked hat which preceded the Preacher had its claim on his
deferential regard. Without being himself a poet, he was in the season
of poetry, in the sweet spring-time, when the year is most beautiful,
because it is new. Novelty was beauty to a heart so open and cheerful as
his; not only because it was novelty, and had its proper charm as such,
but because when we first see things, we see them in a "gay confusion,"
which is a principal element of the poetical. As time goes on, and we
number and sort and measure things--as we gain views--we advance towards
philosophy and truth, but we recede from poetry.

When we ourselves were young, we once on a time walked on a hot
summer-day from Oxford to Newington--a dull road, as any one who has
gone it knows; yet it was new to us; and we protest to you, reader,
believe it or not, laugh or not, as you will, to us it seemed on that
occasion quite touchingly beautiful; and a soft melancholy came over us,
of which the shadows fall even now, when we look back on that dusty,
weary journey. And why? because every object which met us was unknown
and full of mystery. A tree or two in the distance seemed the beginning
of a great wood, or park, stretching endlessly; a hill implied a vale
beyond, with that vale's history; the bye-lanes, with their green
hedges, wound and vanished, yet were not lost to the imagination. Such
was our first journey; but when we had gone it several times, the mind
refused to act, the scene ceased to enchant, stern reality alone
remained; and we thought it one of the most tiresome, odious roads we
ever had occasion to traverse.

But to return to our story. Such was Reding. But Sheffield, on the other
hand, without possessing any real view of things more than Charles, was,
at this time, fonder of hunting for views, and more in danger of taking
up fals