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and evil, formed the gilding, or rather sunshine, of my life, chequered as it was with many a cloud.

The earliest of these mortifications was the not hearing any thing from Foljambe, much less of the deity, as I thought her, of that place, which I never remembered but as the abode of the happy.

To be sure, I nursed myself in unreasonable, because presumptuous, hopes, not merely that I should be remembered, but remembered with pleasure. My own ecstasies, which formed one perpetual remembrance of what I had seen and what I had enjoyed, forbade the thought that I should never see the Park again; but month after month passed on without any note of remembrance, still less of recall. Foljambe, indeed, had told me in the off-hand language of Eton, he would "tip me a line some convenient day or other;"—but I never found that day arrive.

I became querulous and melancholy, as well as fastidious, and my father-who, notwithstanding the retirement and mechanism of his life, was not without observation of the world, and derived some notions of human nature from even such temporary insight into it as could be derived from his attendances on the grand juries-in some degree divined my disease.

"Lad," said he one day to me, "it was an evil hour when I allowed thee to pass those days with young Hastings at yon fine place, schoolfellow as he was. It has made thee discontent with thy own home, and will not help thee much, I doubt, abroad. Thou seest thou art already forgotten, and, mayhap, if they were to meet thee at summer assizes, they would not know thee."

I shuddered at this, and combated it with all my might, but my father would not give up his opinion.

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Early, however, or rather precocious as were the feelings I have described, scarcely intelligible even to myself, they were attended with effects upon my character which demonstrated them to be of the most pure and genuine cast. Not only I felt a sensible increase of manliness within me, but an elevation and refinement of spirit that was to myself surprising. My age had advanced seemingly half-a-dozen years. I felt like a man, and I thought like a man; and, above all, I felt and thought nothing but what a highminded man would have allowed himself to think and feel. I spurned every thing mean, gross, or indelicate. I was alive only to sentiments that were honourable, polished, and liberal; not merely because they were estimable in themselves, but because they alone could be esteemed by her. I trust, I was not naturally disposed to their opposites, but if I was, my nature was changed, and I felt the force of an observation (I think, of Sterne), that a man in love can never condescend to a shabby thing.

The matter did not stop here, for I never now thought of myself so much the son of a decayed gentleman, as the descendant of the De Cliffords, whose ancient lineage and high renown I traced with heightened avidity in the library of the Hall Place.

About this time, too, I first met with the tragedy of Douglas, and, be sure, likened myself to young Norval; for, like him, though apparently a shepherd's son, I had in reality a high descent, and, like him,

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When also I came to the line,

"The blood of Douglas will protect itself."

my heart leaped; for, of course, I felt convinced that the blood of Clifford would do the same.

How soon was all this fine romance dissipated by sober and homely reality, when, in the character of a poor exhibitioner who had his bread to procure, I was summoned to the venerable and venerated seats of science at Oxford, whose towers now rise to my view, and open a new world to my recollections.

CHAPTER VI.

OXFORD SOCIETY AND

MANNERS.- -CHARACTER OF

MR. FOTHERGILL.

Do you not grieve at this.

I shall be sent for in private to him; look you, he must seem thus to the world.—SHAKSPEARE, Henry IV., Second Part.

It was indeed a new world that greeted me in these celebrated temples of learning, which every one that has been among them has cause to remember, either for joy or sorrow. I shall not, however, attempt any minute account either of my impressions on my first arrival, or my occupations afterwards, chiefly those of study. I shall not record, because they will hereafter speak for themselves, the connections I formed; the manners I observed; the acquirements I made; the pleasures I enjoyed; the mortifications I endured.

These last, as a discipline for the mind, and as leading to the true knowledge, and therefore true appreciation of things (by which I mean of the world and human nature), did me more essential service in fitting me for after life than any other occurrences in my

career.

At first, novelty and a semblance of independence, such as I had never felt before, promised happiness. The men of my own College were superior to me in nothing but experience, for I found myself by no

means behind them in academical lore. Had distinction therefore been confined to those acquisitions of knowledge for which I supposed we all of us were sent to the place, I thought my chance of obtaining it equal to that of another, and therefore felt satisfied. Distinction was my object for more causes than one; for every page I read, every prize I obtained, and every acquaintance I cultivated, all resolved themselves into the one absorbing ambition that now filled my soul. To be one day worthy of the notice of Bertha was by far the most exciting, if not the only stimulus that prompted me to shut myself up, "forego all custom of exercise;" and thinking—

"To burst out into sudden blaze,

To scorn delights, and live laborious days."

In short, as I had neither wealth nor other distinction, I felt that severe study alone would give me that after which my heart panted, in order

"To win her grace whom all commend."

If I can accomplish high academical honours, I said to myself, they will certainly be heard of at Foljambe Park.

Precious, sanguine, and most sagacious youth! to suppose that to construe Pindar, or even Lycophron, to have Aristotle at your fingers' ends, or to square the circle, if you could, would recommend at best a decayed gentleman and homely gownsman of Queen's to the bright eyes of a girl of sixteen, born of the aristocracy, and of a family as fastidious as they were

ancient.

Such, however, is the all-stimulating power of this mightiest of our passions, mightiest at least in the

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