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new box of old books had been his only novelty; his only visits had been paid to the Bodleian and the Clarendon.

"His income, however, was so very limited, that necessity-particularly at the outset would have made him willing enough to take a share in superintending the education of the young gentlemen at his college; but the Provost and he had never, as we have seen, been friends, and amidst abundance of more active competitors, it was nothing wonderful that he had remained, for far the greater part of his time, destitute of pupils. Now and then some accident threw a young man in his way-some old family or county connection, or the like. When he had such a duty imposed on him, he had ever discharged it honestly and zealously; but very young men like to be together even in their hours of labour, and, great as, in process of time, Mr Barton's lite rary reputation had grown to be, seldom was any one so ambitious of profiting by his solitary instructions. His last pupil had left college more than a year ago, and the arrival of another was not only a thing altogether unexpected, but-occupied as he was in preparing an extensive and very laborious work for the press, and every day more and more wedded to his toil-it was a thing of which, if he thought of it at all, he certainly had never brought himself to be desirous.

"Although the prime of his manhood was scarcely gone by, the habits of this learned Recluse had already stamped his person with something near a-kin to the semblance of age. His cheek was pale -his eye gleamed, for it was still bright, beneath grey and contracted brows; his front was seamed with wrinkles, and a meagre extenuated hand turned the huge folio page, or guided the indefatigable pen.

Such was the appearance of one who had long forgotten the living, and conversed only with the dead, whose lamp had been to him more than the sun, whose world had been his chamber.

"The studies to which he had chiefly devoted his time were mathematical; yet he had, long ere now, made himself a classical scholar of very high rank.

Of

modern literature he was almost entirely ignorant. It would have been difficult to find one English volume among every fifty in his possession, and certainly there was not one there that had been published for the last twenty years. Of all the lighter and more transitory productions which were at the moment interesting common readers, he knew no more than if they had been written in an antediluvian tongue. If anybody had asked him

what was the last book of celebrity that had issued from the English press, he would probably have named Burke's reflections, or Johnson's Lives of the Poets; and it is not improbable that he would have named them with a sneer, and pointed in triumph to his Demosthenes or his Athenæus. Such a character may be taken for a mere piece of fancy-work; yet how many are there among the inmates of those venerable cloisters, that, without having either deserted their Common Rooms, or earned premature greyness among the folios of ancient times, are contented to know just as little about all such matters as satisfied Mr Barton !

"Of recent events, he knew almost as little as of recent books, Excepting from the fasts and thanksgivings of the church-or, perhaps from some old newspaper brought to him accidentally along with his supply of snuff or stationeryhe heard rarely either of our triumphs or of our defeats. The old college servant who attended him daily in his chambers, had, long ere now, acquired the habit of performing his easy functions without disturbing him by many words; and even the talkative vein of Jem Brank, who dressed Mr Barton's hair every Sunday morning, had learned, by degrees, the uncongenial lesson of restraint. In truth, the extraordinary seclusion in which he lived, the general opinion as to the greatness of his acquirements, the vague belief that some unfortunate event had saddened his mind and changed his pursuits, and the knowledge that there was some misunderstanding, or at least a very considerable coldness, between him and the more active members of the society to which he belonged-these circumstances, taken altogether, had invested the ordinary idea of Mr Barton's character with a certain gloom of mystery-and the merriest menials of the place, even where the buttery batch was double-barred, and the ale double stout, lowered their voices into whispers, if his name was mentioned."

We have thus quoted largely from the first volume of this remarkable production, because we wished to give those who have not yet read it, an opportunity of judging for themselves of its peculiar power. From the other two volumes our extracts must be very confined.

And now Reginald Dalton being a member of the University, and having undergone the various ordeals to which Freshmen are doomed, perhaps many

sober readers expect him, (especially since he is provided with so excellent a tutor,) to turn to his studies, to lay by a small sum each term for the gradual formation of a library; to attend chapel morning and evening, without once shamming Abraham, even in snowy weather; to sport oak against all idlers, to feast on folios, and to prove, by continued practice, his admiration of the mystical doctrine contained in the first line of the first ode of Pindar. Undoubtedly he ought to have done all this and much more; he ought to have laboured in the cause of lecture -to have written analyses of Aristotle's Ethics, Rhetoric, Poetics, &c.,and to have shone at Terminals-to have writtenfor the Latin verses andSir Roger -to have been seen taking a regular, constitutional walk to Joe Pullen, arm in arm with a graduate-to have stood for honours, or been a first-class man→ to have gained both bachelor's prizes, and have beat Professor Sandford, in competition for a Fellowship at Oriel; then to have become college tutor-embued the rising generation for six years with classical literature and philosophy -married a wife verging on her tabbyhood, and retired, without any reasonable prospect of a family, to read Jeremy Taylor in a snug living of £1000 a-year. All this would have been equally natural and enlivening; but our author starts off quite on other ground; and before Reginald has kept his first term, we see that he is such an incorrigible idler, that the odds rise to 5 to 2 that he will be plucked, if not previously expelled.

But all this evil must be laid at the door of Helen Hesketh. That beautiful Roman saint haunts him from night to morn-from morn to dewy eve. A passion new, agitating, burning, and inextinguishable, consumes him like a fever: his whole life falls under its influence. It is this passion, unreflecting in the midst of a thousand thoughts, hopeful in the midst of a thousand vague misgivings-despairing in the midst of a thousand celestial dreams-feeding alike on joy and grief, exultation and despondency, smiles and tears-impelling one day to solitude and study, and noble plans for the future, and driving on the very next, to folly, dissipation, and reckless abandonment of his reasonable soul. It is this passion that is all in all to Reginald Dalton. Life itself, with all

its blessed calms and baleful turmoils visions bright as the sky, or dark as the grave a life of which his young spirit is sick, even unto loathing, or in which it rejoices like an eaglet first winging his flight towards the sun, and from which to part, when that one face is upon him, seems to be the same thing as to sink into utter annihilation.

Now, all this is described-painted by a master's hand. Scared from his propriety on his first entrance into

College, Reginald gets gradually entangled among a set of dashing Ch. Ch. men; drinks-games-hunts

tandemizes on roads not yet Macadamized-makes Dry suffer-disturbs the night-rest of canons and doctorsnarrowly escapes sporting homicide on the body of a Proctor's bull-dog-is under perpetual imposition of the Iliad or Mr Synge's Gentleman's Religion; and to his stair are referred, by disturbed reading men in distant quads, the preternatural and supernatural yellings, that startle the dull ear of night, or unearthly music, as if " head were sweeping Gabriel's hounds," and the pack were on full cry beneath à flock of turkeys, gobbling in the moonlight air. No freak-no frolic— no fight-no row-no escalade-without Reginald Dalton. The finger of admiration is turned towards him, from Magdalen Tower to the gate of Worcester.

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But from all this stupid stir and strife, and worse than stupid the distracted youth feels it be, Reginald ever and anon escapes, and sits with that good old priest in his parlour library. There too is Helen Hesketh, once a nun, still a nun in her meekness, her innocence, and her seclusion from the noisy world by which she is surrounded. Then the baser part of his nature is thrown aside-his midnight orgies are all forgotten-one voice alone seems to exist on all the earth worthy of being listened to, and Reginald even hushes the upbraidings of conscience, as he feels within himself that profound and religious worship of such stainless and unsullied innocence as that serenely smiling before him, and would fain persuade him, that there can be little evil in pursuits that have left his capacity unimpaired of genuine admiration, of deep, disinterested, impassioned, and admiring love.

Few situations could be imagined

better fitted to call out various and conflicting passions, than this one in which we find poor Reginald. Of these, bitter, and cutting, and gnawing remorse, is one of the chief; and the unhappy boy casts back many an agitated thought to his beloved father's study. The calm expression of that bland countenance smites him worse than that of a Gorgon; and he curses his very existence, when he thinks how weakly and how basely he has been betraying the sacred trust reposed in him of a parent's peace. Independently of the utter forgetfulness of all proper academical pursuits, and his participation, now felt to be more shameful than it really could be, in follies for ever bordering on vice, he is day after day getting deeper, and deeper, and deeper into debt, and the strength and virtue of his soul seem dying within him, as he gradually knows himself to be more and more dependent on those tradesmen, whom, at the same time, he must confess to himself he has injured. This feeling, so agonizing and unendurable in its paltry pain to the honourable mind, and his is an honourable mind,-makes him more and more helpless, hopeless, reckless, disturbed, distracted, and diseased in spirit. He is enveloped in a net, that has been slowly creeping up from feet to forehead, and whose meshes he cannot break. A condition like this in ordinary hands would have become revolting in description; but this author has saved his hero from degradation, and preserved our sympathies, by the clear light which he has thrown on the circumstances that have insensibly thus reduced him, so that he appears as if under a fate, while his fervid and generous spirit still exhibits itself in various fine traits that redeem its greatest errors. His principles are still all sound at the core; and we feel that Reginald may be ruined, but will not be dishonoured, and that, happen what may, he will ultimately, by some exertion of his own, liberate himself from such jeopardy, and leave no poor man his creditor, to the value of the tuft on

his cap.

Thus agitated, tempted, and tried, Reginald Dalton loves, with a more desperate passion, the beautiful Helen Hesketh. In her presence, all mean or mighty miseries are laid at rest-comfort and hope breathe from the face of that dutiful and happy girl-and to

possess her, however distant the day, is a thought that brings the brightness of a blessed felicity over the black realities of his most dismal hours. Who she is he knows not. Over her birth there is a mystery which his delicate mind seeks not to penetrate; and that mystery, which seems always to involve something sad, sorrowful, and disastrous, bestows on the resigned and cheerful creature a more touching beauty, and renders her image the emblem of everything most pure, most submissive, most innocent, and it may perhaps soon be also most deserted and lonely on the earth. That such a passion, of which a youth, in such a situation, should be unrequited, is not in the order of novels or of nature; and, fair reader, learn from what follows how true is their mutual love. The scene of those impassioned vows is Godstowe Abbey.

"He found one of the gates unlocked, and stood within the wide circuit of those grey and mouldering walls, that still marks the limits of the old nunnery.

The low moss-covered fruit-trees of the monastic orchard, flung soft and deep shadows upon the unshorn turf below: the ivy hung in dark slumbering masses from every ruinous fragment; the little rivulet, which winds through the guarded precincts, shrunk far within its usual bound, trickled audibly from pebble to pebble. Reginald followed its course to the arch-way, beneath which it gushes into the Isis-but there his steps were arrested.-He heard it distinctly-it was but a single verse, and it wus sung very lowly-but no voice, save that of Ellen Hesketh, could have poured out those soft and trembling tones.

"He listened for a few moments, but the voice was silent. He then advanced again between the thick umbrageous trees, until he had come within sight of the chapel itself, from which, it seemed to him, the sounds had proceeded. Again they were beard-again the same sweet and melancholy strain echoed from within the damp arches, and shook the stillness of the desolate garden. Here, then, she was, and it was to find her he had come thither; yet now a certain strange mysterious fearfulness crept over all his mind, and he durst not, could not, pro

ceed.

"He lay down prostrate among the long grass, which, so deep was the shade above, yet retained the moisture of the last night's dew, and thence, gazing wistfully upon the low door of the dis

mantled chapel, he drank the sorrowful melody timidly, breathlessly, in pain, and yet in luxury.

"Again it was silent a thousand perplexing agonizing thoughts hovered around and above him-he could not toss them away from them-he could not forget them. They were there, and they were stronger than he, and he felt himself to be their slave and their prisoner. But their fetters, though within view, had not yet chained up all his spirit; the gloom overhung, but had not overwhelmed him; the pressure had not squeezed him with all its iron strength. No-the sense of misery, the keenest of all, had communicated its feverish and morbid quickness to that which it could not expel-Love, timorous, hopeless love, had caught a sort of infectious energy, and the long suppressed flame glowed with a stern and desperate stedfastness, amidst the darkness which had deepened around its altars. Next moment, however, that energy was half extinguished in dejection; the flame still burnt intenselybut lowly as of old.

"Alas!' he said to himself, I shall never hear her again-I am ruined, undone, utterly undone-blasted in the very opening-withered on the threshold! Humiliation, pain, misery, lie before me, as surely as folly, madness, phrenzy, wickedness, are behind-as surely as shame, burning, intolerable shame, is with me now. Yet one feeling at least is pure-here I have worshipped innocence in innocence. Alas! it is herehere, above all-that I am to suffer! Miserable creature that I am! She is feeble, yet I have no arm to protect her; she is friendless, yet the heart that is hers, and hers only, dare not even pour itself at her feet. She is alone in her purity; I alone in sinful, self-created helplessness! Love, phrenzy of phrenzies, dream of dreams! what have I to do with Love? Why do I haunt her footsteps? why do I pollute the air she breathes?-how dare I to mingle the groans of guilty despair with those tender sighs?-Beautiful, spotless angel!what have I to do in bringing my remorseful gloom into the home of your virtuous tears, your gentle sorrows!How shall I dare to watch with you with you-beside the pillow of a good man's sickness?-Shame! shame!-let me flee from him, from you-from all but myself and my misery.'

"He had started from his wet lairhe stood with a cheek of scarlet, an eye darkly flashing, and a lip of stedfast whiteness, gazing on the ivied ruin, like

one who gazes his last. At that moment Ellen's sweet voice once more thrilled upon his ear. It seemed as if the melody was coming nearer-another moment, and she had stepped beyond the threshold. She advance towards a part of the wall which was much decayed, and stood quite near the speechless and motionless youth, looking down upon the calm waters of Isis gliding just below her, and singing all the while the same air he had first heard from her lips. -Alas! if it sounded sorrowfully then, how deep was now the sorrow breathed from that subdued and broken warbling of

The Rhine! the Rhine! be blessings on the

Rhine !'

She leaned herself over the low green wall, and Reginald heard a sob struggle against the melody. 'She grieves,' he said to himself she grieves, she weeps!' and with that, losing all mastery of himself, he rushed through the thicket.

"Ellen, hearing the rustling of leaves, and the tramp of a hasty foot, turned towards the boy, who stopped short upon reaching the open turf. Her first alarm was gone, when she recognized him; and she said, a faint smile hovering on her lips, Mr Dalton, I confess I was half frightened-How and whence have you come?' Ere she had finished the sentence, however, her soft eye had instinctively retreated from the wild and distracted gaze of Reginald-she shrunk a step backward, and re-echoed her own question in a totally different tone-' Mr Palton, how are you here?-whence have you come ?-You alarm me, Mr Dalton -your looks alarm me. Speak, why do you look so ?'

"Miss Hesketh,' he answered, striving to compose himself, there is nothing to alarm you-I have just come from Witham-Mr Keith told me you were here.'

"You are ill, Mr Dalton-you look exceedingly ill, indeed, sir. You should not have left Oxford to-day.'

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"I am to leave Oxford to-morrowI could not go without saying farewell.' 'To-morrow!-But why do you look so solemn, Mr Dalton ?—You are quitting college for your vacation ?'

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Perhaps for ever, Miss Hesketh— and’

"O Mr Dalton, you have seen my uncle-you think he is very badly, I see you do you think you shall never see him again, I know you think so!'

"No, 'tis not so; he has invited me to come back with you now; and besides, Mr Keith will get better-I hope, I trust, I am sure he will.'

You would fain deceive me,' said Ellen, and 'tis kindly meant.'

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Nay, indeed, ma'am, I hope Mr, Keith has seen the worst of his illness. You did well to bring him to this fine air, this beautiful place.'

"A beautiful place it is, Mr Dalton." "It is Paradise, but I shall never see it again. I look for the last time upon it —and almost-almost for the last time upon you.'

"The young man shook from head to foot as these words were trembling upon his lips. She, too, threw her eyes on the ground, and a deep glow rushed over her face; but that was chased instantly by a fixed and solemn paleness, and her gaze once more met his.

"He advanced close to her, (for hitherto he had not changed his position,) and leaned for a moment over the broken wall. His hasty hand had discomposed some loose stones, and a fragment of considerable size plunged into the dark stream below. Ellen, thinking the whole was giving way, pulled him quickly backwards from the brink. He lost his balance, and involuntarily, and less by his own act than hers, he was on his knees before her.

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rise.'

Rise up, Mr Dalton-I pray you

"I asked for nothing, Miss Hesketh, I hope for nothing, I expect nothing. But since I do kneel, I will not rise till I have said it-I love you, Ellen-I have loved you long-I have loved you from the first hour I saw you. I never loved before, and I shall never love another."

"Mr Dalton, you are ill-you are sick-you are mad. This is no language for me to hear, nor for you to speak. Rise, rise, I beseech you.'

"Ellen, you are pale, deadly paleyou tremble-I have hurt you, wretch that I am-I have wounded, pained, offended you.'

"Pained indeed,' said Ellen, but not offended, You have filled me with sorrow, Mr Dalton-I give you that and my gratitude. More you do wrong in asking for; and if it had been otherwise, more I could not have given you.'

"The calmness of her voice and words restored Reginald, in some measure, to his self-possession. He obeyed the last motion of her hand, and sprung at once to his feet. You called me mad, Miss Hesketh-'twas but for a moment.'

"Ere he had time to say more, Miss Hesketh moved from the spot;-and Reginald, after pausing for a single instant, followed, and walked across the monastic garden, close by her side-both

of them preserving total silence. A deep flush mantled the young man's countenance all over-but ere they had reached the gate, that had concentrated itself into one small burning spot of scarlet upon either cheek, She, with downcast eyes, and pale as monumental marble, walked steadily and rapidly; while he, with long and regular strides, seemed to trample, rather than to tread the dry and echoing turf. He halted within the threshold of the ruined archway, and said, in a whisper of convulsive energy, 'Halt, madam, one word more ere we part. I cannot go with you to Witham-you must say what you will to Mr Keith. I have acted this day like a scoundrel-a villain-you called it madness, but I cannot plead that excuse. No, madam, there was the suddenness, the abruptness of phrenzy in the avowal-but the feeling had been nurtured and cherished in calmness, deliberately fostered, presumptuously and sinfully indulged. I had no right to love you; you behold a miserably weak and unworthy creature, who should not have dared to look on you.-But 'tis done, the wound is here, and it never can be healed. I had made myself unhappy, but you have driven me to the desperation of agony.-Farewell, madam, I had nothing to offer you but my love, and you did well to reject the unworthy gift-my love! You may well regard it as an insult. Forget the moment that I never can forget-Blot, blot from memory the hour when your pure ear drank those poisonous sighs! Do not pity me-I have no right to love-and pity!—no, noforget me, I pray you-forget me and my misery. And now, farewell once more -I am alone in the world.-May God bless you-you deserve to be happy.'

"He uttered these words in the same deep whisper by which he had arrested her steps. She gazed on him while he spake, with an anxious eye and a glowing cheek-when he stopped, the crimson fleeted away all in an instant. Pale as death, she opened her white and trembling lips, but not a word could come. The blood rushed again over cheek, brow, and bosom, and tears, an agony of tears, streamed from her fixed and motionless eyes.

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'Reginald, clasping his forehead, sobbed out, Thrice miserable! wretch! miserable wretch! I have tortured an angel!' He seized her hand, and she sunk upon the grass-he knelt over her, and her tears rained upon his hands. God!' he cried, why have I lived for this hour? Speak, Ellen-speak, and speak forgiveness.'

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