On my return from missionary labour in India,—a return compelled by the breaking down of health and strength,-one of my first thoughts was given to my old friend Edwin Gray. Nay, during the voyage yearnings had outstripped the swift vessel's comparatively slow progress, and had beaten with doves' wings against the window, wherever that might be-on the other side of which he sat, I knew, with that glad thoughtful face of his, amid the luxury of books and art, and all that could be gathered together by the highest taste, coupled with unchecked means of indulging it. Dear old Oxford days! How I had summoned them before my mind in those parched Indian hours; those hours of sickness and dearth and weariness; when the elasticity of mind and body harl taken wing, and left the machine pulseless, and the wheels of Being slow. When that old eagerness of work had died out of me,—not, I trust, through loss of interest in the work itself, but simply through physical exhaustion; youth's winding up had gradually run down; LL not all at once, not soon, but after years of patient and careful labour. The fly-wheel of Thought, that you could not see for its rapid gyrations, had slackened and slackened, an index to the clogging of the inner wheels,—until you could watch its slow efforts at your ease; and at last it flagged so, and circled so weakly, that it was plain that a complete standstill would result, unless the machinery could be by some fresh power set free and wound up again. The sea voyage had now done wonders, and the thought of England's shores, and of some old faces left behind, gave an unwonted gleam to eyes that had bid fair to lose their light, and a flush to cheeks on whose sunken pallor Death had seemed to have already set his seal. Dear old Oxford days! O, the thought of them lit all the old sparkle in the eyes; called up more than the old glow to the heart. For, glorious, unique as they are in themselves, and delicious even during the time when they are the Present; yet, when they become the Past, what, even while we trod them seemed pleasant hills, become great mountains on life's horizon, lit with the warmest light of the bright sun of glad youth's zest of living! It is true that "The Past will always win A glory from its being far; We saw not when we moved therein." It is true that a something of unreal beauty gathers over years far removed, softening down their harsh points, and mellowing and rounding all into a proportion and symmetry that we saw not when close to them. But the time that least of all needs such a distant point for the taking in of its comeliness is that episode in Life's drama that begins and ends amid the reverend walls of that grey and ancient city. Nevertheless, even these seem more, much more to us, in Life's afternoon, when the shadows grow broader and more massed; when the light is more warm and mellow, if less glaring; when the landscape, I say, hath received its last glazes beneath Time's blending and toning brush; than when the midday sun poured upon them its unhushed glare, and all stood out distinct, and there were no half-tints and retiring greys. In a word, the Present is an Indian midday city, sharp, distinct, without tone: the Past an English twilight valley, with indistinct, weird, lovely massing of trees, and gleaming of river, and sleep of hills, and trembling of one bright undying star above. So far in apology, if apology be needed, for that fond clinging of memory under India's red sun to the grey quiet of grand old Oxford: for that devouring yearning that now filled my heart, at the thought of the renewal of fellowship with my chief Oxford friend, Edwin Gray. I wonder what had befallen him during my absence; for I had lost sight of him, and he of me. Constantly shifting my station, his letters may have missed me until he tired of sending them; : All and mine must have failed to follow him to some new address. the more should we have to tell and to listen to, when at last we met and there is a certain coldness about letters, when great distance divides you, that makes them but poor substitutes for the chat in College rooms. They come so many weeks after date that the joy that they announce has lost its freshness, the grief its poignancy, by the time you become a sharer in it. Besides, the little incidents and interests that make up the life of friendship find no place in speaking that has such a space between the speakers. You fancy that only important events are worth sending such a distance; or you shrink from shouting the heart's inner thoughts and more delicate feelings over such a vast width of seas; so that these convictions modified my regret at the partial unlinking of lives that had once been nearly bound in one. I shall not get to my story, if story it may be called, if I moralize so at the outset. And the Bishop of this Oxford of my fond memories wisely warns sermon writers, with warning that story writers may also lay to heart,--not to build a huge portico of introduction which may lead to but a poor little building at last. So to return to Edwin Gray, my old Oxford friend. His rooms had been on the same staircase with mine; but mine were on the third, his on the second floor. Mine were, like my pocket, scantily furnished, although I yet contrived to render them very snug. A small case of books,-friends silently eloquent, friends beloved, friends unchanging, always at hand-made one side of my little space familiar and pleasing to behold; one or two prized prints relieved the other walls; there was an easy chair, a table, two or three other chairs; and that was about all my furniture. The paper was ugly, but I could not afford to replace it; there were glowing red curtains, however, which burned like carbuncles into the night; rich jewels the windows looked in the dark grey setting of the ancient mullioned stone. And two carpeted steps led up into my bedroom, by a sort of Robinson Crusoe arrangement; to which said bedroom one light of the triple window belonged. I remember the surprise with which I appeared at the head of these steps one night, clad in my night-shirt, and, instinctively, my college cap. A sound as of musical instruments mingled with my dreams, and, in time dispelled them when I stole out, in cautious courage, lo, that rogue Edwin Gray, and five or six others, seated round my table, with my Huntley and Palmer's, my wine and glasses, my small stock of tobacco (I seldom smoked), and what musical instruments they could muster among them, including a comb and paper, and a long French horn! I rubbed my eyes into consciousness of these facts, and into recollection that I had left my oak unsported in retiring for the night. They hailed my appearance with a hearty cheer, and with a vehement performance of : "There's nae luck about the house while Colin is awa!" Half disposed to be indignant, but soon thoroughly awakened, I re laxed, I remember; and casting on my dressing gown, and mending the fire, joined the beloved band, (I do not mean the music, nor was I so sentimentally disposed towards them at the time,)-since scattered far, never perhaps to be reunited here, often thought of almost with the yearning of tears;—and entertained my self-invited guests. So much for my room and one of its experiences. But now for Edwin Gray's apartments, which were of a very different character. They were the crack rooms of the College, in themselves; a set of three, pannelled and furnished with oak, spacious, lofty. And Gray had left nothing undone of building on the foundation so well laid for him. A splendid library, rather select than large, spread over two sides of the principal room. The arrangement was that of compartments to the several subjects. Thus, one division contained Poetry, ancient and modern, the choicest authors only: another, History: another, Philosophy and Science; another, Theology, this rich and venerable in dark antique calf, relieved by the crimson strip for the lettering. And all the books, (though the binding was anything but the first consideration,) were bound and arranged with a view to harmony and contrast of colour; so that in every way they were a feast to contemplate, in their carved oak setting. O the treat that it was to me, in some leisure evening, to rise from talk with my friend, and, still continuing the conversation, range from shelf to shelf, drawing out the smooth heavy volumes one after another; fondly dipping into them; patting them back into their own row again. There is a kind of freemasonry in the ownership of books, and one enjoys them much, even though another be the possessor. I find satisfaction even in pausing before some vast street libraries of them in London; as for instance, Sotheran's, and, not coveting, rather enjoying those neat compact sets of well bound volumes, which are yet wanting in my own shelves; seeking, with especial interest, the space in which that row marked "just out" appears. And since I see many others, especially Clergymen, like myself, in like manner engaged, without entering to purchase, I conclude that in this my taste I shall meet with sympathizers. To return to Edwin Gray and his college rooms. On the dark oak panelling at intervals were hung splendid proof impressions of prints from ancient and modern masters. Francia's, not the least saintly; Raffaelle's; Da Vincis'; Titian's; Reynolds'. Brackets, covered with crimson cloth, supported at intervals the most lovely Parian groups, and single statuettes, canopied and back grounded also with crimson upon the rich oak; over each panel burned a gorgeously illuminated scroll, bearing a text or a motto. Heavy crimson velvet curtains draped part of the recesses of the bow windows, and the long window at the south end of the room was filled in with coloured glass, chiefly silver-white and blue, but redeemed from coldness and poverty by a sufficient balance of warmer colour. A long and massive oak table extended nearly the length of the room; the sofas were lined, and the chairs backed and cushioned with crimson velvet; the Turkey carpet was chiefly wrought in chocolate and dark blue. Add to these items, Davenports of walnut, and side tables covered with appurtenances for study, or with choice ornaments; add, especially, a splendid grand piano, and you have about an idea of a tolerably comfortable room for an Oxford man. Too luxurious for Oxford, you will say. Well, so it was; but the rooms were splendid, exceptionally splendid, in the first instance: and Edwin Gray was a splendid fellow, splendid in person, in taste, in pocket; and gorgeousness in colour and material in all his surroundings seemed only his natural atmosphere. Withal, and notwithstanding the contrast of my rooms and circumstances, he was, I was nearly saying, as much in my rooms as in his own. I was his carissimus amicorum, and he was the like to me. I had tastes similar to his, though not the means of indulging them, nor do I think I should have indulged them if I had; I was more cautious and grave than he, I grew more like a retiring violet (if I may insult the flower by the comparison): he flashed out into the gorgeous tiger-lily, because it was in him, and he could not help it. Poor fellow, I felt half disposed, more than half disposed, to quarrel with what I could not but think an excess of self indulgence. Sometimes he would talk to me about it, for the same thought occurred to him, and his glad eye would grow thoughtful, and his frank brow grave, but only for a time. He was so generous, nay, lavish, that I could not find in my heart to be very hard upon his somewhat of impulsive and thoughtless extravagance. He had the capacities of enjoyment, was young, and handsome, and strong, and rich, high souled, generous, noble. Were not all things given richly to enjoy, if not abused, and why should not he enjoy them ? So I thought, when at times a haunting trouble came into my mind that something as yet undeveloped in that character lay idle under what was indeed a life of unchecked though innocent self indulgence. Where was the taking up of the cross, I used to think; and then again I looked at that handsome face and strong form, a-glow with health and thought, Ah, the time will come: may he not enjoy the mere ecstacy of living, now, in these few Oxford years ? I used to think, they come as a sort of Prologue to the serious Drama, before we have taken our place, have had our part assigned in, it may be, the Tragedy of Life. I thought, I look askance, no doubt, at this hilarity and splendour and riotous health and steady flow of enjoyment; I, sickly, weak, often dull, often depressed, physically, from no external cause; sitting in my bare little two-celled snail shell, out of the line of that sumptuous abundance; sitting in the shade, apart from that ruddy glowing sunshine: and I dare say the contrast sours me, warps me, and I am ill-natured and uncharitable; too exacting, not allowing enough. Life will never be all mere enjoyment for him. Why should I seek to cloud that unspecked summer sky before the time? I think I did myself injustice; I do not think I ever felt one touch of envy either towards the health and enjoyment or the affluence of my friend. But I had learned even then, I think, to endeavour |