of the universities. Their vacation, too, at this time of
the year, falls in pat with _ours_. Here I can take my walks
unmolested, and fancy myself of what degree of standing I
please. I seem admitted _ad eundem_. I fetch up past
opportunities. I can rise at the chapel-bell, and dream that
it rings for _me_. In moods of humility I can be a Sizar, or
a Servitor. When the peacock vein rises, I strut a Gentleman
Commoner. In graver moments, I proceed Master of Arts.
Indeed I do not think I am much unlike that respectable
character. I have seen your dim-eyed vergers, and bed-makers
in spectacles drop a bow or curtsey as I pass, wisely
mistaking me for something of the sort. I go about in black,
which favours the notion. Only in Christ Church reverend
quadrangle I can be content to pass for nothing short of a
Seraphic doctor.

The walks at these times are so much one's own--the tall
trees of Christ's, the groves of Magdalen! The halls
deserted, and with open doors inviting one to slip in
unperceived, and pay a devoir to some Founder or noble or
royal Benefactress (that should have been ours), whose
portrait seems to smile upon their over-looked beadsman, and
to adopt me for their own. Then, to take a peep in by the
way at the butteries, and sculleries, redolent of antique
hospitality: the immense caves of kitchens, kitchen
fire-places, cordial recesses; ovens whose first pies were
baked four centuries ago; and spits which have cooked for
Chaucer! Not the meanest minister among the dishes but is
hallowed to me through his imagination, and the Cook goes
forth a Manciple.