Iamblichus
is particularly obscure and tedious. To any young beginner I would
recommend Petrus de Abano, as the most adequate and gruesome of the
school, for "real deevilry and pleesure," while in the wilderness 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.
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