being struck by the simplicity and quaintness of his manner, and yet the justness and strength of his remarks. His dress, I have already said, was plain; he wore his hair combed down over his forehead, after the manner of the Methodists, in which connection his father had occasionally officiated as a class leader or local preacher, a circumstance from which Arthur's character derived much of that stern piety of deportment which was its chief grace. The occupation in which we found him, so characteristic of that humility which prevented him from being raised by his distinctions above ministering to his parent's comparatively lowly condition, spoke more to my mind for his amiability of disposition than all the praises which I had heard lavished on him at the parsonage.

The more I knew of him the more I felt that he was no common spirit, and I looked forward with confidence to the time when he would prove this to the world. There is something deeply interesting in watching the progress of genius, of which the world knows not. We experience more than a sympathy in the struggles of the spirit, which we feel assured, is yet one day destined to sway the minds of ten-we find a personal interest in the progress of those powers in which we feel, if I may so speak, that, like the first discoverers of unknown land, we have acquired a property, because their existence is known to few but ourselves. We have a pride in being the first to appreciate the intellect to which the world will one day bend, and we look forward with proud anticipation to its future triumphs, as if, in some sense, they were to be

our own.

My intimacy with him soon increased into friendship. He made me the depositary of his difficulties and anxieties, and sought from me that advice which my greater age and superior knowledge of the world enabled me sometimes to give him with effect. But I must not dwell too long upon all the little incidents which might, perhaps, be very uninteresting to my readers, however, my fond affection may magnify them into importance. I remained two months at the parsonage, enjoying the society of good Dr. Wail and his amiable family, and every day improving my acquaintance with Arthur Johns. I

left them in the end of April, and I was accompanied to Dublin by my young, but, even then, my dear friend, who came to pass his second examination at the University.

for

At this examination he was not successful. This is ground upon which, perhaps, I had better tread lightlymy former statement of what was true, of that which actually occurred at one examination, has given offence, and men have said that my object was to depreciate the University, and indulge a malignant sneer at the expense of her fellows. I simply told what had happened. The fellows of college are, I need hardly say, a body of men whom, as a body, I entertain the deepest respect there are many men among them whose characters and whose learning would do honor to the proudest station in which intellectual distinction could place a human being; but there were-I know nothing of them nowthere were men among them whom I despised; there were men whom I have seen manifest a littleness of soul, and a pettiness of spirit, that no chance elevation to a place for which they were unfit, could redeem from the most unqualified contempt. I know not how matters may be now, but certainly when I knew college examinations, "the race was not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong," and though in general the adjudication of honours was honourably impartial, yet where all was left to an individual, there were exceptions to the rule-and in my intercourse with college, I have known more than one instance in which caprice deprived, or favouritism defrauded, industrious merit of its just reward.

Arthur bore his disappointment with the equanimity that I expected. It was immediately after this examination that I advised him to become a candidate for the place of sizar. Few of my readers, perhaps, are unaware that the Dublin University, with that spirit of liberality which so favourably distinguishes her collegiate institutions, has allocated thirty sizarships to the support of poor students, who are unable to avail themselves, in any other way, of the advantages of an academic education. The places are filled up as vacancies occur, after an examination, at which all persons are privileged to present themselves, and the successful

candidates receive their education gratis, and are entitled, for four years, to chambers and commons in the Uni

versity.

When first I urged him to present himself as a candidate at the examination, which always takes place on Trinity Tuesday, he made many objections. He was apprehensive of failure he did not think his classical attainments sufficient to meet the competition with which the places are always sought; (I have known upwards of one hundred candidates for six vacancies,) and it was with no little difficulty I overcame his reluctance to encounter the examination. I was not, however, disappointed in my estimate of his success; although without any special pre. paration for a most severe and scrutinizing examination, he obtained first sizarship, with marks that placed him far beyond the reach of competition.

Having given this decided proof of his ability and classical attainments, and being strongly recommended by Dr. Wail, he had not much difficulty in procuring a situation as assistant in one of the first schools in Dublin, with a salary that to him was affluence, and having his chambers and commons in college, he now seemed comfortably settled. The free rooms appropriated to the accommodation of sizars are the garrets in the old brick or library square, and in one of these Arthur Johns was soon comfortably lodged. Each set of rooms is generally appropriated to two, but the Provost, as a compliment to his acquirements, allotted him a set to himself. This is generally considered as a favour. Poor Arthur seemed greatly gratified by the compliment it implied. The first evening that I sat with him in his small and solitary chambers, he told me of it with pride. I did not wish to damp his spirits, but I could not help involuntarily sighing, as I thought the favour was to be condemned to the solitude of a lonely garret. Those who know the miseries of a "chum" will understand that it was a real favour; but just then I thought that there was no great compliment in being left without a companion, to the miserable and unfriended loneliness of a college life. There was something that was, alas! too prophetic in the melancholy feelings with which I regarded it.

Between the duties of his situation and his studies Arthur's whole time was occupied; occupied, indeed, far more than I could have wished. I could not but observe with alarm, as the summer advanced, that the constitu tional paleness of his cheek had assumed a still more ashy wanness, and that his once bright eye was beginning to be heavy and glazed. I urged him to take more care of his health, and to read less; but he used to laugh at me: he said the walk to and from the school was sufficient exercise for him. When I urged on him the danger of too much mental exertion, he used to point to his head, and say, "God never gave us our brains to be unemployed, and he never will let us be injured by cmploying them."

And it seemed as if his confidence was well grounded. Naturally delicate, he appeared uninjured by an application that might have worn down the most Herculean frame. Winter passed away, and at every examination he attained honours, and raised his character. Everyone now spoke of him: he became the subject of almost universal interest. The chief portion of his time was devoted to the study of the classies; and yet it astonished me, who knew how much he neglected his scientific reading, that he bore a high, a very high character, as a scientific scholar. By the most strict economy of his time, he had also contrived to amass a fund of general information that was quite surprising; and it may give some idea both of his ability and his industry that while, for five hours in the day, he was harassed by the wearying and dispiriting labours of a school, he yet managed, in the hours that were his own, not only to prosecute his academic studies with a success that might well have been the result of undivided application, but to acquire a knowledge of those subjects of general literature which the majority of academic students too generally neglect.

And, as if to make the difficulties of his situation more apparent by contrast -as if to bring into more striking relief the truth of the maxim, which is as old as the days of Juvenal-as old, perhaps, as the selfishness and the heartlessness of society-that poverty is a drag upon genius, a weight that

crushes many a noble spirit to the earth-his principal opponent for honours was a young man of fortune, and one whose parents wisely thought that their wealth was well applied in providing for their son every facility of distinction. From one examination to another St. George was provided with the best tutors that the University could afford, and the hours of his study were broken only by recreations that might invigorate his mind. Poor Arthur was thrown upon his own resources; and the best, because the earliest, hours of his day were taken up in toiling, not so much to find a livelihood for himself as to minister to the comforts of his parents; and yet, with all these odds against him, the child of poverty and toil was successful against his favoured competitor.

Time passed on, and another summer vacation arrived, with its long and dreary days-long and dreary to those who have ever passed them in the solitude of the city, or still more in the desertion of college. In the months of July and August the streets of Dublin are almost deserted. The rumbling of the wheels of a solitary carriage rolling along may occasionally be heard afar off in the quietness of the streets; and the cart of the waterman, as he goes about to lay the dust, tells you that, at least, the municipal authorities calculate upon the presence of some passengers in the streets, for whose convenience they are concerned: but go into College, and you have the utter picture of desolation. You find at the gate, perhaps, a solitary porter, listlessly keeping his sinecure watch: but you meet in the archway no troops of gowned gibs hurrying to and fro, as they flock to or from their lecture; no pompous premium men, looking with an air of self-importance at the notices on the gates. You hear no hum of voices in the courts. You may look round and round, and see no trace of any living thing: nothing meets your eye but the glare of the hot summer sun, falling on the white burning pave ment, and flung back with increased intensity upon the pillars and walls of the gray buildings. All is lonely and deserted; and you feel almost afraid that you are guilty of a crime as the echo of your own footsteps starts the silence and disturbs the repose of the

cloisterlike stillness that is around you. And yet there are men who make this lonely place their residence for the summer months, some by compulsion, and some by choice.

In the beginning of July Arthur paid a short visit to his parents. I would have given much to have seen this meeting. But I can conceive the pride with which they must have received him to their humble roof. I can fancy that I see his old father blessing God for having given him such a son; and his plain mother, with her matronlike cap and clean white apron, gazing on him with pride for the past and anticipation for the future, as he sat by their lonely fireside. His visit, however, was a short one: he returned to Dublin sooner even than he had intended. I confess I thought this strange; that he should thus, as it were, tear himself from the shelter of a parental roof: and when I found that he had returned, after an absence of a fortnight, I feared that he was getting too proud for his parent's cottage. I was at first angry with him; but I began to think that perhaps the feeling was only what might be expected from proud and foolish human nature; and I sighed for the imperfections of mankind, that alloy even the best and noblest dispositions with the base mixture of mean selfishness and silly pride. My reflections were, perhaps, philosophical. I might not have formed too low an estimate of human nature; but I did my friend deep injustice.

After his return I never saw such intense devotion to study as he manifested. His whole soul appeared concentrated in the desire of distinguishing himself. I knew not how to reconcile his sacrifice of health, of everything, to this one object. He did not seem ambitious. He was a mystery to me. It might have corrected my unjust suspicions of his want of filial duty that he had proved his affection for his parents far more substantially than by paying them long visits. Ever since he left them he had received monthly his stipend from the school where he was engaged; and each month he transmitted the best part of it to his mother, reserving only so much as was necessary for those wants with the supply of which the strictest economy could. not dispense.

During the long days of summerdays in which, as I have already said, College is almost altogether deserted I often made it my business to interrupt his studies and force him into an hour's recreation. Often, of an evening, did I bring him reluctantly from his books, to wander under the shelter of the fine old trees in the College park,* and talk with me of many and of strange things. He loved the moonlight of a summer night; and often did we carry with us two chairs from his apartment, and sit under these old trees, watching the moonbeams silvering their leaves, and an occasional bat wheeling round their branches, and then winging his dreary flight to some crevice in the walls of the library. On one of these occasions a circumstance took place which I never can forget. I had been speaking to him of his future prospects. I had been reasoning with him on the indiscretion of the course he was pursuing in devoting his entire time to classical studies, to the neglect of scientific pursuits. I suggested to him that for classical knowledge the University made no permanent provision; while, by applying his time to the study of science, he might ultimately obtain a fellowship-a result which his abilities and, above all, his habits of intense application, might warrant him confidently to expect. He told me candidly that he did not wish for a fellowship. I spoke of its emoluments: he only answered by a deep and heavy sigh. I pressed him on the subject. Of what use," said he, indig nantly, "is the wealth that fellowship confers on you, when a regulation which is the remnant of monastic barbarity prevents you from sharing it?" A deep red blush, I thought, of indignation, passed over his countenance. I could not help laughing. Of all the persons I knew I thought him the least likely to be deterred from a fellowship by the celibacy regulation; and I told him so, and rallied him on the point.

He seemed ill at ease: he rose from the chair on which he was sitting, and stamped his foot hurriedly on the ground. I rose too, and we both, almost mechanically, walked away from the spot.

Nothing more passed between us; but I felt convinced, by the extreme agitation of his manner, that it was a particular attachment, and not a mere general liking for the matrimonial state, that created his aversion to the restraints of the celibacy statute-a statute which is certainly one of the most absurd remnants of a barbarous code, for the maintenance of which no rational justification has ever yet been put forward, and of which the only effect is, to drive from the fellowship here every man of genius, unless the few--and of men of genius they are the fewwho can bring themselves to submit to its odious and unnatural provisions.+ But this is a digression. Let me confine myself to the history of my friend.

I did not wish to question him upon the subject connected with our conversation in the park; and yet it often oc curred to me that he was endeavouring to

lead the conversation so that I should ask for a disclosure that he wished to make, but did not choose to volunteer. I determined to seek an opportunity of obtaining his confidence on the only point on which I had reason to believe that it was withheld. Accident soon obtained it for me.

I was invited, about the middle of September, to make one of a party to visit the Lakes of Killarney. I sought and obtained permission to invite Arthur to accompany us. To my surprise, he positively refused. I pressed him; but, what with him was very unusual, he was obstinate, without being able to give a reason; and I was at last reluctantly obliged to forego my useless solicitations.

The evening before we were to set out I spent with him in College. The evenings had shortened to their autumn

length, and there was no moonlight; so we could not now go and take our usual walk in the park: it was, too, a drizzling evening; the light, misty rain, or fog, was coming in at the open window in the attic beside which we satfor in summer the garret rooms, from their vicinity to the slates, become intolerably hot; in winter they are, for the same reason, proportionally cold. It was such an evening as might put anyone in bad spirits. Arthur was very much depressed; but I attributed it to the state of the atmosphere. Twilight was closing in fast. As we sat conversing, a pause occurred in our conversation: Arthur rose and walked across the room in violent agitation. "Mr. O'Brien," said he, "you are going away tomorrow. We may never meet again; and there is only one secret I have never told you. I do not wish to take it to my grave."

I was astonished at the sad and bitter tone in which he uttered the words, but he did not give me time to interrupt him. “Mr. O'Brien," said he, more loudly, "do not laugh at me; do not think me a fool; I am oneam IN LOVE."

The earnestness with which the words burst, as it were, from the contending emotions that were choking in his throat, told me that even if love might ever excite a smile, his was not a pas sion at which I could laugh.

For years," said he, long years, a hopeless passion has been preying upon my soul; it has roused me into energy that belonged not to me. You have told me that I have abilities. I have shown them, but oh! they were but like the maniac's strength, the unnatural excitement of the same powers that belong to other men. Love was the frenzy of my mind, and that frenzy gave me new and unnatural strength, and like the maniac, that strength has worn me out."

These were the very words he used, and even if they are incorrect, I will not alter them.

"When I was but a child," continued he, " a passion seized upon my mind, and the idol of it has never since for a moment left her shrine. I have dreamed of her when asleep-I have thought of her when awake. I have wandered over the hills, and heard her voice in the music of every breeze, and

seen her image mirrored in the bosom of every lake. Thirteen years ago thirteen years ago"-and he paused upon the words" she was a child-a sweet innocent child, and I was a boy, and not much older than herself. I gathered her wild flowers when she was out with her maid walking through the fields, and I loved her then, and I have loved her ever since."

He had not yet mentioned the name of the object of this wild and enthusiastic passion; the story was singular, indeed: I need not attempt to detail it in his own burning words, but the substance of it was this:

Matilda (I cannot give her true name, and there is a sacredness around her in my mind which prevents me from attaching a fictitious one.) Matilda was the daughter of a gentleman who resided at no great distance from Arthur's home. When they were both children he had conceived for her the most romantic passion, which, unlike most boyish loves, had grown with his growth, and strengthened with his strength. He met her in her walks through the fields when the tenderness of both their ages prevented the distance which the diffe rence of rank created between their more mature years. As they grew up he met her but occasionally, but still the passion lived in his heart. He used to go wherever he thought that he could catch a glimpse of her, even at a distance; and what was most singular was, that though he had cherished this passion for fifteen years, until the object of his childish affection had become a woman, and he himself a man, yet never had he once given the slightest indication of its presence; it was shut up in the loneliest recesses of his own heart, and in that shrine he was content to worship, in secret, the treasured image of the unconscious object of his admiration.

There was something so singularly, so wildly, almost so unreally romantic in the history of this passion-thus formed in childhood, cherished for thirteen long years in secret, and now for the first time communicated to any human being-that it invested his character in my mind with a grandeur that it never had possessed before. The constancy with which he had clung to his early idol, even where he had no possible expectation that his