us all;" and, although the recollection of the change which he had allowed to come over him since his marriage, in regard to his elder children, lowered him somewhat in my estimation, still, as I blamed my lady a good deal more than him for even this, I parted from him with a feeling of respectful veneration for himself, and with such a deep and sincere appreciation of what I deemed his high and noble qualities, as would have endured to the end of my life, if, at a later period, by his own heartless and cruel indifference to one whom he ought to have cherished with his heart's best loveif, by his own harsh and unreasonable severity, he had not destroyed the delusion, and scattered it to the winds. There are, I think, few things more painful, even in a world which is full of pain, than the destroying of those illusions which the heart, either in its simplicity or its love, has built up with such a prof expenditure of its best affections or the objec with such a keen and jealous ap ciati se qualities, either real or fancied, its idol to possess; with such a ss of self and selfish interest in its to pour itself out, with all that it m it deems so worthy of its truest nope, its est and its never-dying en, wh ppointed time, which, to come, has arrived, changeless has been breath which fell upon as withered up, or the ruthlessly and unsparooked so pleasant and so rly spring was resting on in their half-blown buds; when the experience and the wisdom of growing years sit down in judgment to condemn with such wise ɛaws, such heartless sneers, such cold and cutting words, the ill-judged sympathies and affections of those earlier and, in truth, those better and those purer days,-ah, me! it is a weary and a bitter task, and one at which strong men may well falter and grow pale, to demolish at one fell blow the baseless fabric which till then had seemed so strong and firm, to sweep away and utterly wipe out the delusion which till then had seemed so true and deep, and, which, when it has gone, will surely leave a void which all the coming years will never fill again. Yes, this demolishing and sweeping away of our illusions is, in truth, a weary and a comfortless task, but one which, I fear me much, we are most of us called upon to perform oftener than is at all pleasant; a task which is none the less hateful, none the less to be trembled and shuddered at, because it is as unavoidable as it is full of painful and of sorrowful regrets. I was called upon in later days to demolish thus ruthlessly the very innocent delusion which, in my inexperience, I had fallen into regarding Sir Percy Percy. I discovered later on that he was not all that I had fancied him, all that I had imagined him to be; and would that this had been the most bitter discovery which, in the battle of life, I was ever called upon to make; oh, would that this had been the strongest and most dearly-cherished illusion which I was ever called upon to annihilate and sweep away. But, no more of this. I will only add with the poet, that "The apprehension of the good Gives but the greater feeling to the worse: than At the close of our vacation my friend and I entered Oxford. I, of course, was bound to a certain fixed college, and consequently had no choice in this matter. Sir Percy willingly allowed his son to enter the same college as myself, although he might have reasonably preferred that his son should be in a more aristocratic house than that in which my Exhibition entitled me to take up my abode. Tom Bowman came down on the same day as ourselves, and a very hearty, and a very pleasant meeting we had. However, I saw at a glance that the friendship of Atherby school was somewhat in danger. I knew well enough that there would be no change between Eustace and me, but Tom had put his name on the books of the "fastest" college in Oxford; and as I was very much afraid that Tom was likely to be the fastest amongst the fast, I thought that he would be pretty sure to travel at a much more lively pace either my means or my inclinations would allow me to take. I knew well enough that his "set" would never suit me on pecuniary grounds, even if on no other, and I was sure that it would suit Eustace less. I was equally sure that I would do my best to keep Eustace out of it; for, although he was incomparably purer and better than I, still, ridiculous as it may seem, I always considered myself, in a certain sense, as his guardian; and, whilst probably I should merely have laughed off any attempt to lead myself astray, I should have repelled the same attempt, if it had been made upon him, with the angry word, and, as likely as not, the hasty blow. Hence, as I saw that Tom would necessarily have to choose between his old friends and his new ones, and although I had little doubt that, whilst his better feelings would be in favour of the old ones, he would be carried captive by the new ones, as well through his own inclinations, as by the greater attractions which he would find in their company, and by their more showy qualities, I was quite prepared to find a considerable falling off in our former intimacy, or, at all events, in the outward manifestation of it, and in this I was not disappointed. I have, however, written those words, "the outward manifestation of it," advisedly, for I believe that there was never any change in his heart. I believe that in his heart he was ever the same, and that, although he might sometimes leave us for days without dropping into our rooms, the hours which he did spend with us in our own quiet way were the happiest, as they were the most dearly cherished by him. I believe that, although he had not strength of will to break away from the new companions who got such hold upon him, he always wished to do it; and I am sure that, in his better moments, his heart always instinctively turned away with disgust from the noisy band who surrounded him, and played, I do not say maliciously, but, at all events, thoughtlessly and heedlessly, upon his pliant nature, to the friends of his earlier days. However, as I shall have to speak of him again shortly, I will say no more on this point, except that, as at Atherby school, Tom had always been the leader in everything that was daring or out of order, so, at Oxford, whether an unpopular dean were to be screwed up in his room, an obnoxious proctor to be persecuted within an inch of his life, or a battle-royal to be organized between Town and Gown, Tom Bowman was certain to be the heart and soul of the undertaking. As I must hasten on to other and more important matters, I have no intention of giving my reader any detailed account either of the grand old city itself, or of our life during the time we were privileged to spend within the walls, whose every stone seems to speak with a deathless voice of the glories of those ancient days, when England's faith brought forth such goodly fruit, and raised aloft such noble homes, where sanctity and science might settle and take root, as may, perchance, still plead her cause before God, as may, perchance, be allowed to stand in some small measure against the errors and prevarications of the evil times on which her lot has fallen. It seems to me as if the very stones of such a place as Oxford must for ever cry aloud to us to remember the days of old and the generations which have passed away-to remember the days when England's kings and England's princes deemed their faith the brightest jewel in their crown-the days when there was through all the land but the one altar, as there was but the one true faith- the days when Mary's name was a "household word," and "Mary's dower" was one of England's proudest titles the days when Englishmen could bend in willing and in happy submission to the dictates of their conscience and their faith-a faith that was obedient, and rational because it was obedient-the days of faith that were happy and were blessed because they were days of faith-a faith which spoke in works, which raised for the worship of God, Westminster, and Hereford, and York, and the rest of the glorious churches which cast such a solemn and a moving beauty on our waving fields and on our smiling valleys; a beauty which is all the more touching now, because it is so mournful, too; the beauty of the fair body which has not as yet seen corruption on its outward form, but which, never |