As
the poet cannot do this (unless he is a "sleepless man"), his
existence is a long struggle with the fellows and tutors of his
college. The manners of poets vary, of course, with the tastes of
succeeding generations. I have heard of two (Thyrsis and Corydon)
"who lived in Oxford as if it were a large country-house."
Of other singers, the latest of the heavenly quire, it is invidiously
said that they build shrines to Blue China and other ceramic
abominations of the Philistine, and worship the same in their rooms.
Of this sort it is not the moment to speak. Time has not proved
them. But the old poets of ten years ago lived a militant life; they
rarely took good classes (though they competed industriously for the
Newdigate, writing in the metre of Dolores), and it not uncommonly
happened that they left Oxford without degrees. They were often very
agreeable fellows, as long as one was in no way responsible for them;
but it was almost impossible--human nature being what it is--that
they should be much appreciated by tutors, proctors, and heads of
houses. How could these worthy, learned, and often kind and
courteous persons know when they were dealing with a lad of genius,
and when they had to do with an affected and pretentious donkey?
These remarks are almost the necessary preface to a consideration of
the existence of Shelley and Landor at Oxford--the Oxford of 1793-
1810. Whatever the effects may be on Shelleyan commentators, it must
be said that, to the donnish eye, Percy Bysshe Shelley was nothing
more or less than the ordinary Oxford poet, of the quieter type.
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