the dead tongues; and the Virgil, which he could not exchange

against a meal, had often consoled him in his hunger. He would

study it, as he lay with tightened belt on the floor of the old

calaboose, seeking favourite passages and finding new ones only

less beautiful because they lacked the coinsecration of

remembrance. Or he would pause on random country walks; sit on

the path side, gazing over the sea on the mountains of Eimeo; and

dip into the Aeneid, seeking sortes. And if the oracle (as is

the way of oracles) replied with no very certain nor encouraging

voice, visions of England at least would throng upon the exile's

memory: the busy schoolroom, the green playing-fields, holidays

at home, and the perennial roar of London, and the fireside, and

the white head of his father. For it is the destiny of those

grave, restrained and classic writers, with whom we make enforced

and often painful acquaintanceship at school, to pass into the

blood and become native in the memory; so that a phrase of

Virgil speaks not so much of Mantua or Augustus, but of

English places and the student's own irrevocable youth.

Robert Herrick was the son of an intelligent, active, and

ambitious man, small partner in a considerable London house.

Hopes were conceived of the boy; he was sent to a good school,

gained there an Oxford scholarship, and proceeded in course to

the Western University. With all his talent and taste (and he had

much of both) Robert was deficient in consistency and

intellectual manhood, wandered in bypaths of study, worked at

music or at metaphysics when he should have been at Greek, and

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