crowning a distinguished under-graduate, after the Senate-house examination, he would represent her as concealing a Death's-head under a mask of beauty.

When this was over he went to London; London was a new scene of excitement, and what his mind required was tranquillity and rest. Before he left College he had become anxious concerning his expences, fearing that they exceeded his means. Mr. Catton perceived this, and twice called him to his rooms to assure him of every necessary support, and every encouragement, and to give him every hope. This kindness relieved his spirits of a heavy weight, and on his return he relaxed a little from his studies, but it was only a little. I found among his papers the day thus planned out:-Rise at half past five. Devotions and walk till seven. Chapel and breakfast till eight. Study and lectures till one. Four and a half clear reading. Walk, &c. and dinner, and Woollaston, and chapel, to six. Six to nine, reading-three hours. Nine to ten, devotions. Bed at ten."

Among his latest writings are these resolutions:

"I will never be in bed after six.

I will not drink tea out above once a week, excepting on Sundays, unless there appear some good reason for so doing.

I will never pass a day without reading some portion of the Scriptures.

I will labour diligently in my mathematical studies, because I half suspect myself of a dislike to them.

I will walk two hours a day, upon the average of every week.

Sit mihi gratia addita ad hæc facienda."

About this time, judging by the hand writing, he wrote down the following admonitory sentences, which, as the paper on which they are written is folded into the shape of a very small book, it is probable he carried about with him as a manual.

"1. Death and judgment are near at hand.

2. Though thy bodily part be now in health and ease, the dews of death will soon sit upon thy forehead.

3. That which seems so sweet and desirable to thee now, wil, if yielded to, become bitterness of soul to thee all thy life after.

4. When the waters are come over thy soul, and when in the midst of much bodily anguish, thou distinguishest the dim shores of Eternity before thee, what wouldest thou not give to be lighter by this one sin!

5. God has long withheld his arm; what if his forbearance be now at an end? Canst thou not contemplate

these things with the eyes of Death? Art thou not a dying man, dying every day, every hour?

6. Is it not a fearful thing to shrink from the summons when it comes? To turn with horror and despair from the future being? Think what strains of joy and tranquillity fall on the ear of the saint who is just swooning into the arms of his Redeemer; what fearful shapes, and dreadful images of a disturbed conscience, surround the sinner's bed, when the last twig which he grasped fails him, and the gulph yawns to receive him.

7. Oh, my soul, if thou art yet ignorant of the enor mity of sin, turn thine eyes to the man who is bleeding to death on the cross! see how the blood, from his pierced hands, trickles down his arms, and the more copious streams from his feet run on the accursed tree, and stain the grass with purple! Behold his features, though scarcely animated with a few remaining sparks of life, yet how full of love, pity, and tranquillity! A tear is trickling down his cheek, and his lip quivers.-He is praying for his murderers! O my soul! it is thy Redeemer it is thy God! And this too for Sin-for Sin? and wilt thou ever again submit to its yoke?

8. Remember that the grace of the Holy Spirit of God is ready to save thee from transgression. It is always at hand: thou canst not sin without wilfully rejecting its aid.

9. And is there real pleasure in Sin? Thou knowest there is not. But there is pleasure, pure and exquisite pleasure in holiness. The Holy Ghost can make the paths of religion and virtue, hard as they seem, and thorny, ways of pleasantness and peace, where though there be thorns, yet are there also roses, and where all the wounds which we suffer in the flesh, from the hardness of the journey, are so healed by the balm of the spirit, that they rather give joy than pain."

The exercise which Henry took was no relaxation; he still continued the habit of studying while he walked ; and in this manner, while he was at Cambridge. committed to memory a whole tragedy of Euripides. Twice he distinguished himself in the following year, being again pronounced first at the great College examination, and also one of the three best theme writers, between whom the examiners could not decide. The College offered him, at their expence, a private tutor in mathematics during the long vacation; and Mr. Catton, by procuring for him exhibitions to the amount of 661. per ann. enabled him to give up the pecuniary assistance which he had received from Mr. Simeon and other friends. This intention he had expressed in a letter, written twelvemonths before his death. "With regard to my college expences, he says, I have the pleasure to inform you, that I shall be obliged, in strict rectitude, to wave the offers of many of my friends. I shall not even need the sum Mr. Simeon mentioned after the first year; and it is not impossible

that I may be able to live without any assistance at all. I confess I feel pleasure at the thought of this, not through any vain pride of independance, but because I shall then give a more unbiassed testimony to the truth, than if I were supposed to be bound to it by any ties of obligation or gratitude. I shall always feel as much indebted for intended as for actually afforded assistance; and though I should never think a sense of thankfulness an oppressive burthen, yet I shall be happy to evince it, when in the eyes of the world the obligation to it has been discharged." Never, perhaps, had any young man, in so short a time, excited such expectations; every University honour was thought to be within his reach; he was set down as a medallist, and expected to take a senior wrangler's degree: but these expectations were poison to him; they goaded him to fresh exertions when his strength was spent. His situation became truly miserable; to his brother, and to his mother, he wrote always that he had relaxed in his studies, and that he was better; always holding out to them his hopes, and his good fortune; but to the most intimate of his friends, (Mr. Maddock), his letters told a different tale: to him he complained of dreadful palpitations-of nights of sleeplessness and horror, and of spirits depressed to the very depth of wretchedness, so that he went from one acquaintance to another, imploring society, even as a starving beggar intreats for food. During the course of this summer, it was expected that the Mastership of the Free-School at Nottingham would shortly become vacant. A relation of his family was at that time mayor of the