The poor little schoolboy's muse was perhaps quite of the pedestrian
order: but so also, the critics said, had been stern old Dr. Johnson's
in his "London."

Mere school-exercises (whereof I have some antique copybooks before me),
cannot be held to count for much as early literature; though I know not
why some of my Greek Iambic translations of the Psalms and Shakespeare,
as also sundry very respectable versions of English poems into Latin
Sapphics and Alcaics still among my archives, should not have been
shrined--as they were offered at the time--in Dr. Haig Brown's
Carthusian Anthology. However somehow these have escaped printer's
ink,--the only true _elixir vitæ_--and we must therefore suppose them
not quite worthy to be bracketed with the classical versification of
Buchanan or even of Mr. John Milton,--albeit actually superior to sundry
of the aforesaid Anthologia Carthusiana; so of these we will say
nothing.

Of other sorts of schoolboy literaria whereof from time to time I was
guilty let me save here (by way of change) one or two of my trivial
humoristics: here is one, not seen in print till now; "Sapphics to my
Umbrella,--written on a very rainy day," in 1827. N.B. If Canning in his
Eton days immortalised sapphically a knifegrinder, why shouldn't a young
Carthusian similarly celebrate his gingham?

"Valued companion of my expeditions,
Wanderings, and my street perambulations,
What can be more deserving of my praises
Than my umbrella?