For with G.D.--to be absent from the body, is sometimes (not to speak it profanely) to be present with the Lord. At the very time when, personally encountering thee, he passes on with no recognition--or, being stopped, starts like a thing surprised--at that moment, reader, he is on Mount Tabor--or Parnassus--or co-sphered with Plato--or, with Harrington, framing "immortal commonwealths"--devising some plan of amelioration to thy country, or thy species--peradventure meditating some individual kindness or courtesy, to be done to _thee thyself_, the returning consciousness of which made him to start so guiltily at thy obtruded personal presence. D. is delightful any where, but he is at the best in such places as these. He cares not much for Bath. He is out of his element at Buxton, at Scarborough, or Harrowgate. The Cam and the Isis are to him "better than all the waters of Damascus." On the Muses' hill he is happy, and good, as one of the Shepherds on the Delectable Mountains; and when he goes about with you to show you the halls and colleges, you think you have with you the Interpreter at the House Beautiful. [Footnote 1: Januses of one face.--SIR THOMAS BROWNE.] CHRIST'S HOSPITAL FIVE AND THIRTY YEARS AGO In Mr. Lamb's "Works," published a year or two since, I find a magnificent eulogy on my old school,[1] such as it was, or now appears to him to have been, between the years 1782 and 1789. It happens, very oddly, that my own standing at Christ's was nearly corresponding with his; and, with all gratitude to him for his enthusiasm for the cloisters, I think he has contrived to bring together whatever can be said in praise of them, dropping all the other side of the argument most ingeniously.