ord, and I will show you either a
sulky misanthrope or an affected ass. Many, many indeed, are the
unpleasant recollections which, in the case of nearly all of us, will
mingle with the joy with which we recall our college days. More than the
ghosts of duns departed, perhaps unpaid; more than the heart-burnings of
that visionary fellowship, for which we were beaten (we verily believe,
unfairly) by a neck; more than that loved and lost ideal of first class,
which we deserved, but did not get, (the opinions of our examiners not
coinciding in that point with our own;) yes, more than all these, come
forcibly to many minds, the self-accusing silent voice that whispers of
time wasted and talents misapplied--kind advice, which the heat of youth
misconstrued or neglected--jewels of price that once lay strewed upon
the golden sands of life, then wantonly disregarded, or picked up but to
be flung away, and which the tide of advancing years has covered from
our view for ever--blessed opportunities of acquiring wisdom, human and
divine, which never can return.

Yet in spite of all this, if there be any man who can say that Oxford is
not to him a land of pleasant memories, ~"Met' hemoi parhestios
ghenoito"~--which is, being freely translated, "May he never put his legs
under my mahogany"--that's all. I never knew him yet, and have no wish
to make his acquaintance. He may have carried off every possible
university honour for what I care; he is more hopelessly stupid, in my
view of things, than if he had been plucked fifteen times. If he was
fond of reading, or of talking about reading; fond of hunting, or
talking about hunting; fond of walking, riding, rowing, leaping, or any
possible exercise besides dancing; if he loved pleasant gardens or
solemn cloisters; learned retirement or unlearned jollification--in a
word, if he had any imaginable human sympathies, and cared for any thing
besides himself, he would have liked Oxford. Men's tastes differ, no
doubt; but to have spent four years of the spring of one's life in one
of the most magnificent cities and best societies in the world, and not
to have enjoyed it--this is not a variety of taste, but its privation.

I fancy there is a mistaken opinion very prevalent, that young and
foolish, older and wiser, are synonymous terms. Stout gentlemen of a
certain age, brimful of proprieties, shake their heads alarmingly, and
talk of the folly of boys; as if they were the only fools. And if at any