ess of
Plotinus there are many beautiful passages and lofty speculations. Two
winters in the Northern University, with the seamy side of school life
left behind, among the kindest of professors--Mr. Sellar, Mr. Ferrier,
Mr. Shairp--in the society of the warden, Mr. Rhoades, and of many dear
old friends, are the happiest time in my life. This was true literary
leisure, even if it was not too well employed, and the _religio loci_
should 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 w