"But all our praises, why should lords engross?
Rise, Honest Muse, and sing the Man of Ross.
Who taught that Heaven directed spire to rise?
'The Man of Ross,' each lisping babe replies.
Behold the Market-place, with poor o'erspread,
The Man of Ross divides the weekly bread.
Is any sick? The Man of Ross relieves,
Prescribes, attends, the med'cine makes and gives.
Is there a variance? Enter but his door,
Balked are the courts; and contest is no more."
That there are, to-day, such Men of Ross and Men of Elsewhere, in certain colleges and college towns, is known full well. And Somewhere there is a University—Infinite, Eternal, and Unchangeable—which will grant them their degrees!
What strikes one curiously, in the study of the Literary Landmarks of Oxford, is the fact that in that town have figured, as young men or as old, so many authors of half forgotten, or of quite forgotten, books; books which are well known by name to our own generation, books which are freely quoted, wittingly or unwittingly, generally through Mr. Bartlett's Collection of such Familiar Things; but books which are never read. How many students of to-day have gone, from frontispiece to end, through "The Ship of Fools"; through "The Anatomy of Melancholy"; through "The Book of Martyrs"; through "The Whole
