world. The shelves of their library groan under the weight of the
Benedictine folios, of the editions of the fathers, and the
collections of the middle ages, which have issued from the single
abbey of St. Germain de Prez at Paris. A composition of genius must
be the offspring of one mind; but such works of industry, as may be
divided among many hands, and must be continued during many years,
are the peculiar province of a laborious community. If I inquire
into the manufactures of the monks of Magdalen, if I extend the
inquiry to the other colleges of Oxford and Cambridge, a silent
blush, or a scornful frown, will be the only reply. The fellows or
monks of my time were decent easy men, who supinely enjoyed the
gifts of the founder; their days were filled by a series of uniform
employments; the chapel and the hall, the coffee-house and the
common room, till they retired, weary and well satisfied, to a long
slumber. From the toil of reading, or thinking, or writing, they
had absolved their conscience; and the first shoots of learning and
ingenuity withered on the ground, without yielding any fruits to the
owners or the public. As a gentleman commoner, I was admitted to
the society of the fellows, and fondly expected that some questions
of literature would be the amusing and instructive topics of their
discourse. Their conversation stagnated in a round of college
business, Tory politics, personal anecdotes, and private scandal:
their dull and deep potations excused the brisk intemperance of
youth; and their constitutional toasts were not expressive of the
most lively loyalty for the house of Hanover. A general election
was now approaching: the great Oxfordshire contest already blazed
with all the malevolence of party-zeal. Magdalen College was
devoutly attached to the old interest! and the names of Wenman and
Dashwood were more frequently pronounced, than those of Cicero and
Chrysostom. The example of the senior fellows could not inspire the