I soon grew tired of this, and relapsed into my vein of mere poetical
indulgence. I was charmed with Oxford, for it was full of poetry to me.
I thought I should never grow tired of wandering about its courts and
cloisters; and visiting the different college halls. I used to love to
get in places surrounded by the colleges, where all modern buildings
were screened from the sight; and to walk about them in twilight, and
see the professors and students sweeping along in the dusk in their
caps and gowns. There was complete delusion in the scene. It seemed to
transport me among the edifices and the people of old times. It was a
great luxury, too, for me to attend the evening service in the new
college chapel, and to hear the fine organ and the choir swelling an
anthem in that solemn building; where painting and music and
architecture seem to combine their grandest effects.

I became a loiterer, also, about the Bodleian library, and a great
dipper into books; but too idle to follow any course of study or vein
of research. One of my favorite haunts was the beautiful walk, bordered
by lofty elms, along the Isis, under the old gray walls of Magdalen
College, which goes by the name of Addison's Walk; and was his resort
when a student at the college. I used to take a volume of poetry in my
hand, and stroll up and down this walk for hours.

My father came to see me at college. He asked me how I came on with my
studies; and what kind of hunting there was in the neighborhood. He
examined my sporting apparatus; wanted to know if any of the professors
were fox-hunters; and whether they were generally good shots; for he
suspected this reading so much was rather hurtful to the sight. Such
was the only person to whom I was responsible for my improvement: is it
matter of wonder, therefore, that I became a confirmed idler?