catena*. Miserable deceptions! The gossamer thread on yonder leaf is not more fragile. The feeble wings of a fly in Autumn would break through such a cobweb. No! here would I set up my tabernacle,-here would I leave my Pillar of Memorial. The place has a sanctity for me,-the faces are familiar to me: I love even the trees around us. Here let me remain."

HERVEY.

"And me, too, while I have thee, Cowley. But sometimes, at least, we may go into the world to study man, as a surgeon visits the abodes of the sick, to search into their diseases. How can we

*

Why are not the Essays of Cowley printed in a separate form for general circulation? Every lover of English literature has their beauties by heart; but I cannot refrain from quoting one brief passage from the Essay on Liberty,' as a most admirable commentary on the preceding remark. He is speaking of the great rich man. "He's guarded with crowds, and shackled with formalities. The half hat, the whole hat, the half smile, the whole smile, the nod, the embrace, the positive parting with a little bow; the comparative at the middle of the room, the superlative at the door: and if the person be pan huper sepastus, there's a huper-superlative ceremony then of conducting him to the bottom of the stairs, or to the very gate; as if there were such rules set to these Leviathans, as are to the sea: Hitherto shalt thou go, and no further."

To understand the full meaning and force of these polite ceremonies, a man must be a scholar and poor.

hope to heal the wounded spirit, if we know not its anatomy; if we have not examined those fine and delicate sympathies which constitute the nervous system of the mind. The philosopher may have store of simples, but what will they avail if the skill to apply them be wanting. Cannot we carry our poetry and love of the country with us into the world, as we do the love of our homes and of our mothers? Can

COWLEY.

"Stop, William! All thou seekest can be found here; let us carefully explore our own hearts, and the great heart of Humanity will be as open before us, as though Nature had shaped a living man in crystal to aid our studies*. Once more,-Why should we set out on this perilous journey? Why barter our health, our innocence, and our peace, for a few splendid feathers, or coloured beads? Why venture our hands into the lion's mouth, for the little honey in his jaws? Dost thou thirst after glory? then sit here and gather it. Fame can translate thy works into all tongues, and carry thy Oh, happy

name to the corners of the earth. student

* See Cowley's Ode to Dr. Scarborough.

Whose brow is wreathed with the silver crown
Of clear content*.

So, when thou art sleeping in the dust, reverential feet shall tread the floor of thy chamber, and the books marked by thy finger, the paper traced by thy pen, yea, the very table that hath been the mute companion of thy toil, shall become, as it were, sainted relics."

WHEN Cowley uttered these words he was writing his Davideis; and an anticipation of his own future distinction may have crossed his mind, for Genius is often blest with the prophet's eye. How gladly, in his own case and that of others, would we realize his affectionate aspiration; and tread that chamber where, with Hervey, he spent the night

In search of deep philosophy,

Wit, eloquence, and poetry.

Or sit down in the room where the Muse brought flowers to Milton, to strew over the grave of his sister's child:

Soft silken primrose fading timelessly;

Or look out from the window through which the sun shone on the learned visions of Spenser. Pem

• Marston.

broke has undergone so few alterations during the last three hundred years, that the rooms once occupied by the noblest and purest spirit that ever hallowed the walls, are still in existence, and are supposed to be those now inhabited by the Tutor of the College. In the Combination Room hangs his portrait, almost as delicious to look upon as his own pictures.

88

THE HISTORY OF A LOST STUDENT;

TAKEN DOWN FROM HIS OWN LIPS.

If there be any Hell in this world, they which feel the worm of conscience gnawing at their hearts, may truly say, that they have felt the torments of Hell. Who can express that man's horrors but himself! Sorrows are met in his soul as at a Feast. FEAR, THOUGHT, and Anguish, divide his soul between them. All the Furies of Hell leap upon his heart like a stage. THOUGHT calls to Fear, Fear whistleth to Horror, Horror beckoneth to Despair, and saith, ‘Come and help me to torment this sinner !’——The Betraying of Christ, 1592.

My first curacy was a parish in Cambridge, which, perhaps, more than any other in the county, requires the constant and unwearied solicitude of the pastor. An older minister would have regarded such a cure with apprehension; but I, with the ardour of youth, only congratulated myself upon the wide field that lay open for the employment of my religious energies. I began to enumerate the wanderers I should reclaim, the wavering I should confirm, the pious I should establish. How far these sanguine anticipations were realized is immaterial to the present narrative.