CHAPTER XI. STRANGE things have happened unto me-I seem scarce awake-but I will recollect my thoughts, and try to give an account of what has befallen me the few last weeks. Since my father's death our family have resided in London. I am in practice as a surgeon there. My mother died two years after we left Widford. A month or two ago, I had been busying myself in drawing up the above narrative, intending to make it public. The employment had forced my mind to dwell upon facts, which had begun to fade from it-the memory of old times became vivid, and more vivid-I felt a strong desire to revisit the scenes of my native village-of the young loves of Rosamund and her Clare. I wandered, scarce knowing where, into an old wood, that stands at the back of the house-we called it the Wilderness. A wellknown form was missing, that used to meet me in this place-it was thine-Ben Moxam the kindest, gentlest, politest of human beings, yet was he nothing higher than a gardener in the family. Honest creature! thou didst never pass me in my childish rambles, without a soft speech, and a smile. I remember thy good-natured face. But there is one thing, for which I can never forgive thee, Ben Moxam-that thou didst join with an old maiden aunt of mine in a cruel plot, to lop away the hanging branches of the old fir-trees-I remember them sweeping to the ground. I have often left my childish sports to ramble in this place-its glooms and its solitude had a mysterious charm for my young mind, nurturing within me that love of quietness and lonely thinking, which has accom A kind of dread had hitherto kept me back; but I was restless now, till I had accomplished my wish. I set out one morn-panied me to maturer years. ing to walk-I reached Widford about eleven In this Wilderness I found myself, after a in the forenoon-after a slight breakfast at ten years' absence. Its stately fir-trees were my inn-where I was mortified to perceive yet standing, with all their luxuriant comthe old landlord did not know me again-pany of underwood-the squirrel was there, (old Thomas Billet-he has often made angle- and the melancholy cooings of the woodrods for me when a child)—I rambled over pigeon-all was as I had left it-my heart all my accustomed haunts. softened at the sight-it seemed as though my character had been suffering a change since I forsook these shades. Our old house was vacant, and to be sold. I entered, unmolested, into the room that had been my bedchamber. I kneeled down on the spot where my little bed had stood I felt like a child-I prayed like one-it seemed as though old times were to return again-I looked round involuntarily, expect ing to see some face I knew-but all was naked and mute. The bed was gone. My little pane of painted window, through which I loved to look at the sun when I awoke in a fine summer's morning, was taken out, and had been replaced by one of common glass. I visited, by turns, every chamber-they were all desolate and unfurnished, one excepted, in which the owner had left a harpsichord, probably to be sold—I touched the keys-I played some old Scottish tunes, which had delighted me when a child. Past associations revived with the music-blended with a sense of unreality, which at last became too powerful-I rushed out of the room to give vent to my feelings. My parents were both dead-I had no counsellor left, no experience of age to direct me, no sweet voice of reproof. The Lord had taken away my friends, and I knew not where he had laid them. I paced round the wilderness, seeking a comforter. I prayed that I might be restored to that state of innocence, in which I had wandered in those shades. Methought my request was heard, for it seemed as though the stains of manhood were passing from me, and I were relapsing into the purity and simplicity of childhood. I was content to have been moulded into a perfect child. I stood still, as in a trance. I dreamed that I was enjoying a personal intercourse with my heavenly Father—and, extravagantly, put off the shoes from my feet-for the place where I stood I thought, was holy ground. This state of mind could not last long, and I returned with languid feelings to my inn. were gathered round a young man, dressed in black, sitting on a grave-stone. I ordered my dinner-green peas and a sweetbread-it had been a favourite dish with me in my childhood-I was allowed to He seemed to be asking them questionshave it on my birth-days. I was impatient probably, about their learning—and cne to see it come upon table-but, when it little dirty ragged-headed fellow was clamcame, I could scarce eat a mouthful-my bering up his knees to kiss him. The tears choked me. I called for wine-I drank | children had been eating black cherries—for a pint and a half of red wine-and not till then had I dared to visit the church-yard, where my parents were interred. The cottage lay in my way-Margaret had chosen it for that very reason, to be near the church-for the old lady was regular in her attendance on public worship-I passed on-and in a moment found myself among the tombs. I had been present at my father's burial, and knew the spot again-my mother's funeral I was prevented by illness from attending a plain stone was placed over the grave, with their initials carved upon it-for they both occupied one grave. I prostrated myself before the spot-I kissed the earth that covered them-I contemplated, with gloomy delight, the time when I should mingle my dust with theirs --and kneeled, with my arms incumbent on the grave stone, in a kind of mental prayer -for I could not speak. Having performed these duties, I arose with quieter feelings, and felt leisure to attend to indifferent objects.—Still I continued in the church-yard, reading the various inscriptions, and moralising on them with that kind of levity, which will not unfrequently spring up in the mind, in the midst of deep melancholy. I read of nothing but careful parents, loving husbands, and dutiful children. I said jestingly, where be all the bad people buried? Bad parents, bad husbands, bad childrenwhat cemeteries are appointed for these ?— do they not sleep in consecrated ground? or is it but a pious fiction, a generous oversight, in the survivors, which thus tricks out men's epitaphs when dead, who, in their life-time, discharged the offices of life, perhaps, but lamely Their failings, with their reproaches, now sleep with them in the grave. Man wars not with the dead. It is a trait of human nature, for which I love it. some of the stones were scattered about, and their mouths were smeared with them. As I drew near them, I thought I discerned in the stranger a mild benignity of countenance, which I had somewhere seen before—I gazed at him more attentively. It was Allan Clare! sitting on the grave of his sister. I threw my arms about his neck. I exclaimed "Allan "—he turned his eyes upon me-he knew me-we both wept aloud-it seemed as though the interval since we parted had been as nothing-I cried out, "Come, and tell me about these things." I drew him away from his little friendshe parted with a show of reluctance from the church-yard-Margaret and her granddaughter lay buried there, as well as his sister-I took him to my inn-secured a room, where we might be private-ordered fresh wine-scarce knowing what I did, I danced for joy. Allan was quite overcome, and taking me by the hand, he said, "This repays me for all." It was a proud day for me-I had found the friend I thought dead-earth seemed to me no longer valuable, than as it contained him; and existence a blessing no longer than while I should live to be his comforter. I began, at leisure, to survey him with more attention. Time and grief had left few traces of that fine enthusiasm, which once burned in his countenance-his eyes had lost their original fire, but they retained an uncommon sweetness, and whenever they were turned upon me, their smile pierced to my heart. So we drank and told old stories-and repeated old poetry-and sang old songsI had not observed, till now, a little group as if nothing had happened. We sat till very assembled at the other end of the church-late. I forgot that I had purposed returning to yard; it was a company of children, who town that evening-to Allan all places were alike I grew noisy, he grew cheerful-not ceased to love them-and could 1 find Allan's old manners, old enthusiasm, were re- the cruel persecutor, the malignant instruturning upon him—we laughed, we wept, we ment of GOD's judgments on me and mine, mingled our tears, and talked extravagantly. I think I would forgive, and try to love him Allan was my chamber-fellow that night —and lay awake planning schemes of living together under the same roof, entering upon similar pursuits,—and praising GOD, that we had met. In the course of our walk he unbosomed himself without reserve-told me many particulars of his way of life for the last nine or ten years, which I do not feel myself at liberty to divulge. Once, on my attempting to cheer him, when I perceived him over thoughtful, he replied to me in these words: "Do not regard me as unhappy when you catch me in these moods. I am never more happy than at times when, by the cast of my countenance, men judge me most miserable. "My friend, the events which have left this sadness behind them are of no recent date. The melancholy which comes over me with the recollection of them is not hurtful, but only tends to soften and tranquillise my mind, to detach me from the restlessness of human pursuits. "The stronger I feel this detachment, the more I find myself drawn heavenward to the contemplation of spiritual objects. "I love to keep old friendships alive and warm within me, because I expect a renewal of them in the World of Spirits. "I am a wandering and unconnected thing on the earth. I have made no new friendships, that can compensate me for the loss of the old-and the more I know mankind, the more does it become necessary for me to supply their loss by little images, recollections, and circumstances of past pleasures. too. "I have been a quiet sufferer. From the beginning of my calamities it was given to me, not to see the hand of man in them. I perceived a mighty arm, which none but myself could see, extended over me. I gave my heart to the Purifier, and my will to the Sovereign Will of the Universe. The irresistible wheels of destiny passed on in their everlasting rotation,-and I suffered myself to be carried along with them without complaining." CHAPTER XII. ALLAN told me that for some years past, feeling himself disengaged from every personal tie, but not alienated from human sympathies, it had been his taste, his humour he called it, to spend a great portion of his time in hospitals and lazar-houses. He had found a wayward pleasure, he refused to name it a virtue, in tending a description of people, who had long ceased to expect kindness or friendliness from mankind, but were content to accept the reluctant services, which the oftentimes unfeeling instruments and servants of these well-meant institutions deal out to the poor sick people under their care. It is not medicine, it is not broths and coarse meats, served up at a stated hour with all the hard formalities of a prison-it is not the scanty dole of a bed to die on— which dying man requires from his species. Looks, attentions, consolations,-in a word, sympathies, are what a man most needs in this awful close of mortal sufferings. A kind look, a smile, a drop of cold water to the parched lip-for these things a man shall bless you in death. "I am sensible that I am surrounded by a multitude of very worthy people, plain- And these better things than cordials did hearted souls, sincere and kind. But they Allan love to administer-to stay by a bedhave hitherto eluded my pursuit, and will side the whole day, when something disgustcontinue to bless the little circle of their ing in a patient's distemper has kept the families and friends, while I must remain a very nurses at a distance to sit by, while stranger to them. the poor wretch got a little sleep and be "Kept at a distance by mankind, I have there to smile upon him when he awoke-to slip a guinea, now and then, into the hands The uncommonness of the name, which of a nurse or attendant-these things have was Matravis, suggested to me, that this been to Allan as privileges, for which he was might possibly be no other than Allan's old content to live; choice marks, and circum- | enemy. Under this apprehension, I did stances, of his Maker's goodness to him. what I could to dissuade Allan from acAnd I do not know whether occupations | companying me-but he seemed bent upon of this kind be not a spring of purer and going, and even pleased himself with the nobler delight (certainly instances of a more notion, that it might lie within his ability to disinterested virtue) than arises from what do the unhappy man some service. So he are called Friendships of Sentiment. went with me. When we came to the house, which was in Soho-square, we discovered that it was indeed the man-the identical Matravis, who had done all that mischief in times past-but not in a condition to excite any other sensa Between two persons of liberal education, like opinions, and common feelings, oftentimes subsists a Variety of Sentiment, which disposes each to look upon the other as the only being in the universe worthy of friendship, or capable of understanding it,-them- tion than pity in a heart more hard than selves they consider as the solitary receptacles | Allan's. of all that is delicate in feeling, or stable in attachment: when the odds are, that under every green hill, and in every crowded street, people of equal worth are to be found, who do more good in their generation, and make less noise in the doing of it. Intense pain had brought on a deliriumwe perceived this on first entering the room for the wretched man was raving to himself-talking idly in mad unconnected sentences-that yet seemed, at times, to have a reference to past facts. It was in consequence of these benevolent One while he told us his dream. "He propensities, I have been describing, that had lost his way on a great heath, to which Allan oftentimes discovered considerable in- there seemed no end-it was cold, cold, cold, clinations in favour of my way of life, which—and dark, very dark-an old woman in I have before mentioned as being that of a leading-strings, blind, was groping about for surgeon. He would frequently attend me a guide "— and then he frightened me, on my visits to patients; and I began to for he seemed disposed to be jocular, and think that he had serious intentions of sang a song about “ an old woman clothed making my profession his study. in grey," and said "he did not believe in a devil." He was present with me at a scene-a death-bed scene-I shudder when I do but think of it. CHAPTER XIII. I WAS sent for the other morning to the assistance of a gentleman, who had been wounded in a duel,—and his wounds by unskilful treatment had been brought to a dangerous crisis. --- Presently he bid us "not tell Allan Clare." -Allan was hanging over him at that very moment, sobbing.-I could not resist the impulse, but cried out, "This is Allan Clare -Allan Clare is come to see you, my dear Sir."-The wretched man did not hear me, I believe, for he turned his head away, and began talking of charnel-houses, and dead men, and "whether they knew anything that passed in their coffins." Matravis died that night. ESSAYS. RECOLLECTIONS OF CHRIST'S HOSPITAL. the people, let those judge who have witnessed the looks, the gestures, the behaviour, the manner of their play with one another, whole aspect and physiognomy of that vast assemblage of boys on the London foundation, who freshen and make alive again with their sports the else mouldering cloisters of the old Grey Friars - which strangers who have never witnessed, if they pass through Newgate-street, or by Smithfield, would do well to go a little out of their way to see. To comfort the desponding parent with fining its advantages to the very lowest of the thought that, without diminishing the stock which is imperiously demanded to furnish the more pressing and homely wants of our nature, he has disposed of one or more their deportment towards strangers, the perhaps out of a numerous offspring, under the shelter of a care scarce less tender than the paternal, where not only their bodily cravings shall be supplied, but that mental pabulum is also dispensed, which He hath declared to be no less necessary to our sustenance, who said, that, "not by bread alone man can live" for this Christ's Hospital unfolds her bounty. Here neither, on the one hand, are the youth lifted up above their family, which we must suppose liberal, though reduced; nor on the other hand, are they liable to be depressed below its level by the mean habits and sentiments which a common charity-school generates. It is, in a word, an Institution to keep those who have yet held up their heads in the world from sinking; to keep alive the spirit of a decent household, when poverty was in danger of crushing it; to assist those who are the most willing, but not always the most able, to assist themselves; to separate a child from his family for a season, in order to render him back hereafter, with feelings and habits more congenial to it, than he could even have attained by remaining at home in the bosom of it. It is a preserving and renovating principle, an antidote for the res angusta domi, when it presses, as it always does, most heavily upon the most ingenuous natures. This is Christ's Hospital; and whether its character would be improved by con For the Christ's Hospital boy feels that he is no charity-boy; he feels it in the antiquity and regality of the foundation to which he belongs; in the usage which he meets with at school, and the treatment he is accustomed to out of its bounds; in the respect and even kindness, which his wellknown garb never fails to procure him in the streets of the metropolis; he feels it in his education, in that measure of classical attainments, which every individual at that school, though not destined to a learned profession, has it in his power to procure, attainments which it would be worse than folly to put it in the reach of the labouring classes to acquire: he feels it in the numberless comforts, and even magnificences, which surround him; in his old and awful cloisters, with their traditions; in his spacious schoolrooms, and in the well-ordered, airy, and lofty rooms where he sleeps; in his stately dining-hall, hung round with pictures, by Verrio, Lely, and others, one of them surpassing in size and grandeur almost any |