ferred. The other, an elderly and gouty citizen of
London, decided on accompanying me at the peril of
his life, which he would, more than once, have been
content to lay down, with his exhausted body, on
the snow,
if I had not exerted myself to cheer him on
from time to time and allowed him my arm to lean
upon. He had begun, early in our journey, to regret
that, allured, like myself, by the appearance of a
favourable change of weather, he had ventured to
leave his own snug home, and each successive stage
poured forth his lamentations more and more piteously
-Domum! domum! dulce domum! At first he
would not have exposed himself to such an inclement
night for a great deal; then he assigned a more defi-
nite value to his calamity, and he would not have
encountered such weather for a hundred pounds, no,
not even, at last, for a thousand. He might have
taken up the plaintive strain of Hassan, the camel-
driver, and, mutatis mutandis, have exclaimed-

"Sad was the hour, and wreckless was the night,
When I from London's walls did take my flight,"

which, if not quite so much in character with a Londoner as his illustration drawn from pounds, shillings, and pence, would at least have served to show how the extremes of cold and heat meet alike in misery. After little less than an hour's painful march against wind and snow, and with four spirited horses

to keep in order, we arrived at length at the wishedfor inn; but from its being about that time of night when folks are apt to be dead asleep, we were content to make our way at once to the stables, and there remained, with gradually increasing warmth, in the same quarters with our horses until seven in the morning, when a good breakfast soon followed our admission into the inn; and, about eight, the weather having sufficiently cleared to allow us to proceed, the guard gave the order, and we made another start. Arriving at the coach with some difficulty, we found our fellow-passenger safe, and well satisfied with having remained there through the night, wrapt in his own great coat and Sancho's far-famed substitute for a blanket. Still we were enjoying the superior comfort of a good internal lining from a warm breakfast, which he was glad enough to procure, the first opportunity; for the blessings of sleep are transient; and Sancho's philosophy, with the warmest cloak into the bargain, will not satisfy the cravings of hunger in a cold frosty morning, like a warm breakfast; nor is any beverage more to be recommended on such occasions, than a cup of good coffee, which drives the blood round through every crank and cranny of the system, cheers and invigorates both mind and body, and leaves no after-account to be settled with the head or heart. We found the roads in many places almost impassable from the vast accumulation of snow,

which made it often necessary for us to get out of the coach and walk, so that we did not arrive at Norwich until thirty hours after the usual time. There I remained with my good and hospitable friends, the Peels, till the ebb was pronounced to be sufficiently clear of ice to admit of a packet's getting to Cuxhaven, which port I reached, after a voyage of six days from Yarmouth, on the 14th of March, 1799.

During my stay at Norwich, I called on Mr. Middleton, who afterwards became the first Bishop of Calcutta. He had received his education at Christ's Hospital, and was the early friend and associate of Coleridge, most of whose many biographers have mentioned, that it was owing to a present of Bowles's Sonnets, made to him in his seventeenth year by Middleton, that he was drawn aside at that time from controversial theology and wild metaphysics to the charms of poetry. He is even said to have transcribed these sonnets no less than forty times in eighteen months, in order to make presents of them to his companions. But he was born a metaphysician as well as a poet, and no one has exemplified more fully the truth of that well-known line of Horace,

"Naturam expellas furca, tamen usque recurret."

Bishop Middleton was a contemporary likewise, at Cambridge, and an intimate college friend, of my

brother's, the rector of St. Mawgan, Cornwall, to whom I am indebted for some interesting particulars relative to him at this period of his life. Although he came to the university a first-rate classic, yet it so happened that Maltby, the present Bishop of Chichester, was of the same year and college; and when Middleton took his Bachelor of Arts degree, he found himself so completely eclipsed by his college competitor, that his spirits drooped, and he seemed disposed to retire from the race of literature, and to fall thenceforward into the rear of learned society. Great as were his mental endowments, he had on no occasion proved himself a match for Maltby at prizefighting. His odes and epigrams were good, but Maltby's were better, or more according to the academic formula. Moreover, his application was far inferior to Maltby's, who, to his classical honours, added that of being eighth Wrangler, whilst Middleton was only fourth Senior Optime.

Their last struggle together was for the Chancellor's medals, for which none below the rank of Senior Optime can contend, when Maltby was as usual victorious. I have heard my brother say, that nothing could exceed Middleton's despondency at this time. He bitterly felt to how much higher distinction he might have attained, if he had but been more diligent during his three probationary years; whereas, the honours he had acquired, scarcely gave him a claim

upon his college for a fellowship. Still, difficult as it was for him, under these circumstances, to regain his own self-esteem, which, with every one, is more or less dependant upon the opinion of the world, his was a mind too conscious of its own powers to succumb altogether; and we accordingly find, from the memoir prefixed to the volume of his Sermons and Charges published after his death, by Dr. Bonney, that he entered into holy orders soon after taking his A.B. degree. From that time he seems to have been determined to run the race that was set before him, with diligence equal to his strength.

The following extract from a letter written by him, when on his voyage to India, to a young friend in England, has an interest in connection with the foregoing statement, which induces me to transcribe it from the memoir alluded to above:

"lamented that young

"I have often," he says, men who have gained credit at the taking of their first degree at Cambridge, act afterwards as if they were exempted from all exertion; the honours which they may have obtained at the age, perhaps, of twentyone, fully satisfy their ambition, and they seem determined to rest upon them for the remainder of their lives; whereas, in truth, they are intrinsically nothing ; though considered as letters of recommendation, and facilities afforded to success in the real business of life, they are of the highest value, and really deserve the