CHAPTER IV.
COLLEGE DAYS.
In 1829 I was entered as a commoner at Christ Church, Oxford, and went through the usual course of lectures with fair success.

As a family we have all favoured Oxford rather than Cambridge: my father and two cousins, Elisha and Carre, were at Exeter College, to take the benefit of its Sarnian Exhibitions; my brother Daniel was at Brasenose, and my brother William gained a scholarship of Trinity.

When at Christ Church I wore the same academical gown which my father had,--and have it still; a curious antiquity in the dress line, now some fourscore years old, and perfect for wear and appearance,--such as would have rejoiced the Sartor Resartus of Carlyle.

At college I did not do much in the literary line, unless it is worth mention that translations from the Greek or Latin poets were always rendered by me in verse not prose, and that I published anonymously "A Voice from the Cloister," being an earnest appeal to my fellow-collegians against the youthful excesses so common in those days.
From this pamphlet I give an extract, as it is scarce; it began with blank verse and ended with rhyme, all being for the period courageously moral and religious.

The end is as thus:-- "Enough, sad Muse, enough thy downward flight Has cleft with wearied wing the shades of night: Be drest in smiles, forget the gloomy past, And, cygnet-like, sing sweeter at the last, Strike on the chords of joy a happier strain And be thyself, thy cheerful self, again.
Hail, goodly company of generous youth, Hail, nobler sons of Temperance and Truth! I see attendant Ariels circling there, Light-hearted Innocence, and Prudence fair, Sweet Chastity, young Hope, and Reason bright, And modest Love, in heaven's own hues bedight, Staid Diligence, and Health, and holy Grace, And gentle Happiness with smiling face,-- All, all are there; and Sorrow speeds away, And Melancholy flees the sons of day; Dull Care is gladden'd with reflected light, And wounded Sin flies sickening at the sight.
"My friends, whose innate worth the wise man's praise And the fool's censure equally betrays, Accept the humble blessing of my Muse, Nor your assistance to her aim refuse, She asks not flattery, but let her claim A kind perusal, and a secret name." I scarcely like to mention it, as a literary accident, but being a curious and unique anecdote it shall be stated.