his own hair "curly and long"; that he pronounced the authorities "men remarkable for great wigs and little wisdom"; that he confessed that he learned nothing at Oxford, but a little rowing and a little swimming; that he went up, from Westminster, in a perilous state, with a heart full of poetry and feeling; that while he was in Oxford he carried "Epictetus" in his pocket, until his very heart was ingrained with it, as a pig's bones become red by feeding him upon madder; and that one of his tutors said to him once: " Mr. Southey, you won't learn anything by my lectures, sir. So, if you have any studies of your own, you'd better pursue them."
When our tutors begin to talk that way to our freshmen, who make "Epictetus" a steady diet, we may congratulate ourselves that we have a Southey among us.
Southey goes on to say that he never dreamed at Oxford;—a sure proof, to him, of how little it had entered into his moral being.
While the present writer was at Oxford, gathering, into his note-books, all these things about Oxford and about its Men of Letters, he dreamed every night, and it seemed to him all night, about Oxford and about his work there. Which shows how much, in six weeks, Oxford entered into the moral being of an individual who went to Oxford
