My life at college has not left me a single pleasant recollection. I
found sycophancy established there, as a principle of action;
flaunting on the lord's gold tassel in the street; enthroned on the
lord's dais in the dining-room. The most learned student in my
college--the man whose life was most exemplary, whose acquirements
were most admirable--was shown me sitting, as a commoner, in the
lowest place. The heir to an Earldom, who had failed at the last
examination, was pointed out a few minutes afterwards, dining in
solitary grandeur at a raised table, above the reverend scholars who
had turned him back as a dunce. I had just arrived at the University,
and had just been congratulated on entering "a venerable seminary of
learning and religion."

Trite and common-place though it be, I mention this circumstance
attending my introduction to college, because it formed the first
cause which tended to diminish my faith in the institution to which I
was attached. I soon grew to regard my university training as a sort
of necessary evil, to be patiently submitted to. I read for no
honours, and joined no particular set of men. I studied the literature
of France, Italy, and Germany; just kept up my classical knowledge
sufficiently to take my degree; and left college with no other
reputation than a reputation for indolence and reserve.

When I returned home, it was thought necessary, as I was a younger
son, and could inherit none of the landed property of the family,
except in the case of my brother's dying without children, that I
should belong to a profession. My father had the patronage of some
valuable "livings," and good interest with more than one member of the
government. The church, the army, the navy, and, in the last instance,