must dine without his daughter, for she was far from well.

This cast a gloom upon us all; though I own, at first, I was by no means certain whether the illness was not assumed, in order to avoid the exhibition of a consciousness which might be unpleasant. But Bertha was no dissembler, and when Mrs. Margaret, in answer to inquiries as to what she would like sent her, brought down word that she declined eating any thing, and would only take some tea, I began not only to believe, but to be alarmed; nor was my anxiety diminished, when, after dinner, Mr. Hastings leaving the bottle, which was seldom his custom, for Granville to administer, passed up stairs and did not

return.

A sort of gloomy abstraction ensued; Granville was serious, I uneasy and involved in considerations of the future, and Mr. Darling, after being reduced to bestow himself upon the wine and fruit, thinking he was in the way, called for his horse, and jogged quietly home.

The evening passed off heavily, and I was any thing but cheerful. Indeed, the house was itself a house of mourning, and little able to bear any new uneasiness; the night, therefore, was not happy.

The next morning, however, which I had fixed for my departure, gave better tidings of Bertha, though she still kept her chamber,-whether from design or inability to leave it, I could not tell; and I took leave of Mr. Hastings alone. He had graciously ordered his chariot and four to take me to York; I

stept into it with tolerable alacrity; and when it drove from the door, I seemed to turn my back upon all that was worth living for in the world.

Sad and serious were my reflections during my toolong journey; for not foreseeing how necessary it was to get as quickly over the ground as possible, I had embarrassed myself with a horse at York, most mistakenly preferring solitary meditation in a slow journey back to Oxford, to the rapid mail-coach just then established, with the company of inquisitive strangers. Nevertheless, I behaved manfully, and did not scruple to look my position full in the face. What gave me most hope of myself was, that, however hurt and wounded in pride, I could not blame Bertha. I thought she had behaved with perfect propriety, and doing her this justice gave me consolation.

As I approached Oxford, however, and contemplated the new life I was evidently to lead there, never before or since did that interesting place appear so dismal. I perceived that my mind was jaundiced. Beautiful as Oxford still was, the associations which give to its beauty its principal charm were now wanting. I no longer thought of it as the abode of science, of genius, of an inexhaustible mine of learning, the haunt of cultivated spirits, holding their arms open to myself to become one of them; but as a mere place of exile for a given time, though from what country I knew not, because to what country I myself belonged I could not tell. Even Maudlin Tower, once as I thought an emblem of tranquillity, no longer had

charms for me. I passed it without being conscious of its existence, far less of its beauty.

What made me almost angry was, the happy air of content, inspired by peace and leisure, which the town and colleges seemed to wear, although it was night. All the buildings appeared illuminated, yet there was no noise or bustle; for the lights proceeded-or seemed with a little imagination to do so-from the quiet lamps of study. Their inmates, thought I, have very different mistresses from mine; the Muses seldom refuse the worship of those who court them. I have played them truant, but perhaps they will receive me again.

Such meditation had employed me from the time I reached what Pope calls "the gloomy verdure of Stonour;" for I recollected his picturesque journey to Oxford, which, like myself, he approached," overtaken by the solemn light of the moon, without company, or any interruption to the range of his own thoughts." I experienced, also, the same surprise that he did, when, about half a mile from the city, all the bells tolled in different notes, the clocks of every college answering one another, and sounding (some in a deeper, some in a softer tone) that it was eleven at night.

Having put up my horse, I proceeded with a heavy heart to Queen's, and gave but a sullen knock at the ponderous gate. The porter seemed in a state of happy drowsiness, which I almost, or quite, envied. He had no care but to open and shut. He knew nothing of refinement, and least of all of a refined and

misplaced passion. He was low and alone in the world, and content to be so. He seemed, however, glad, as well as surprised, to see me, and told me "Muster Fothergill would be main glad too."

What fears did not this name inspire! I expected to be severely catechised, and almost wished for a tutor who was content with Greek lectures, without troubling himself with those on the heart. However, I had leisure enough to think all these things over during the night. My friend, the porter, had furnished me with a lanthorn, and I let myself into my room; but bed never looked so little inviting, and in the recess of an armed-chair I lost myself in no very comfortable state for several hours. He must, however, be a wretch indeed, who frightens away his soft nurse during a whole night. Accordingly, when I waked in the morning, I found myself in my bed, after something like refreshment and wiser thoughts had taken possession of me. The pang at leaving Foljambe Park had done its worst. I had formed stern resolutions, not the less deeply fixed because I had given way to natural feeling in the first moments of parting; and I began to have less fear of the meeting with Fothergill.

As I had acquainted him with my accident, he very kindly waived the ceremony of my waiting upon him, and, on learning my arrival, came to see me in my rooms; then, having ascertained that there was scarcely any inconvenience remaining from my wounds, he proceeded at once to the subject which he supposed was uppermost with me. I concealed nothing; but

told him all I had observed that had raised my ideas of Bertha's character; but, at the same time, all that had fixed my conviction from herself, that to continue to love her would be vain.

"How do you

you angry ?"

"No."

feel towards her ?" asked he.

"Are

"Is she in danger of losing the character she has gained with you ?”

"No."

"Do you yet hate her ?"

"Oh, no.

Though she has been more distant to me than I thought she could be, I shall ever look upon her as unequalled among women, in every charm and every virtue."

"I have hopes of you," said Fothergill, “but I shall watch you. I will have no lone walks, much less at midnight; though I think the lesson you received upon that sort of romance will save a repetition of it for some time to come."

We then conferred on our plan of operations as to academical pursuits, and he opened to me a view he had kindly fostered for my benefit: this was, to stand at the next election for a Demy at Maudlin.

"If you are once cured of your love of any females but the Muses," said he, "the disposition you have shewn for literature, and a little interest, may, I think, insure your success, and you may then literally pursue the early footsteps of your favourite Addison."

The thought gave me a pleasure that I could notindeed did not try to conceal. It lighted up my