This young man, though annoyed at being beaten by Pauperly, was so much pleased with his manners and conduct during the examination, that he made further inquiries respecting him. The answers to those inquiries were so satisfactory that he determined, albeit he was a Ch. Ch. man, and a younger scion of a good family, to make of him an acquaintance, and if possible a friend.

He called on him and invited him to his rooms. Pauperly declined, and modestly assigned his reasons for so doing-" he was too proud to accept invitations which he was too poor to be able to return." Ploddington endeavoured to reason away the objection in his case, but Pauperly was firm, and his mother applauded his firmness. At the same time she told him that she should be happy to see his new acquaintance at their lodgings whenever he was disposed to favour them with his company.

Ploddington, finding it was useless to argue the matter further, was glad to consent to this arrangement, and knowing that they could mutually benefit one another, he spent many of his evenings at Pauperly's. Several baskets of game, poultry, and fish, came directed to Mrs. Pauperly; and, strange to say, she could never find out by whom they were sent. Pauperly had his suspicions, but he thought it unnecessary to give vent to them, and so deprive his mother of such little luxuries as her income could not allow her to indulge in, and also deprive the sender, who he knew could afford the expense, of the gratification of seeing her enjoy them.

At his intimacy with Mr. Ploddington both Dr.

and Mr.

Pensive were greatly pleased, as they trusted that at the end of his university career it might be the means of introducing him into good society. They both felt that his success, of which they doubted not, would justify him in seeking it.

During the long vacation, while Ploddington was absent from Oxford, and reading with a private tutor in the country, Pauperly again devoted so much time to reading that his health, unperceived by his mother, began to fail him. He felt that he was ill-really, seriously ill -not so much by his rapid pulse, failing appetite, and sleepless nights, as by the disrelish he began to feel for his books, and the different views he entertained of the value of academical success. He almost resolved to give up the pursuit of fame-to take a common-pass degree, and retire from Oxford, unknowing and unknown. The sight of his mother, however the knowledge that she would be greatly and grievously disappointed at the failure of the hopes and expectations which she had formed of him, urged him on-on-on, until human nature could bear no more. His hands trembled, his eyes became dim, his voice lost its cheerful tones, and one day, as he sat reading to his mother, a giddiness attacked his brain, his eyes lost the power of vision, and he fell back fainting in his chair.

His mother in great alarm sent for the physician who had previously attended him by the advice of Dr. who, with Mr. Pensive, was spending the recess at the sea-side. On his arrival he informed her of the cause of her son's relapse, and insisted on his taking daily rides in a gig at first, and afterwards on horseback, into the country, until he had recovered his health. Mrs. Pauperly promised that his orders should be strictly attended to; but while she was absent for a few minutes her

son told the physician that he could not consent to the plan, as his mother's income was too small to enable her to bear the

expense.

"Nobly spoken," said the doctor; "and as I ride out daily, and shall be glad of a companion, you shall accompany me."

"But my mother? I must not leave her."

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Plenty of room in the carriage," said the doctor. "She shall ride too; it will do her good."

By the kind and judicious attention of the good-hearted physician― who refused to take a single fee from the widow and orphan-Pauperly was sufficiently restored to enable him to do what he had long determined on-to try for the English prize poem, known as "the Newdigate," and to write an English essay. The very change from reading philosophy and history in the dead languages to the less burdensome task of writing and composing in his native tongue was a great relief to him. He found the truth of

Mutatis studiis, levior fit labor.

When the long vacation was over, and Ploddington returned to college, his first act was to call on his friend. He was shocked to see the change which illness had effected in him. He left him, and having learnt from the widow the name of the physician who had attended him, he called on him and begged him to tell him truly the state of his friend's health, and the means best calculated to restore it.

The doctor told him that less study, a little port wine, with plenty of air and horse exercise, would speedily renovate his frame.

In a few days a hamper of port came down by the London waggon directed to Mrs. Pauperly, and by some extraordinary chance two horses were sent up to Oxford for Mr. Ploddington, and as he could only ride one at a time, he begged of Pauperly as a great favour to mount the other, just to keep him in exercise.

Pauperly saw through the scheme, squeezed his friend's hand, and mounted.

The physician's words came true. The sick and weakly student was restored to health and strength. The Principal was delighted, and Mr. Pensive in the excess of his joy assured them that the allies had taken Badajoz by storm, which had surrendered some three years before, though he had "only just come to it in the newspapers.'

Winter passed, and its frost melted before the sun of spring. Nature put on her new gown of green to greet him. Oxford began to fill with strangers-lions and lionesses, as the young men call them. Colleges and halls were visited, the broad walk promenaded, and carriages rolled along, conveying their fair burdens to see the beauties of Blenheim and Nuneham. The commemoration was at hand.

The morning of the day-a genial day of June-dawned bright and beautiful. Not a cloud showed itself to throw a gloom upon the important business which was to be transacted at the theatre. Soon after nine o'clock crowds of graduates and undergraduates were seen wending their way from all parts of Oxford to the common centre of attraction. Broad-street was filled with carriages, which creeping along one after the other, deposited their elegantly-dressed contents at the front gate of the theatre. These ladies were admitted at once, and took their seats in the lower circle. Shortly after these seats were filled other doors were opened to admit the masters and the male visiters to the area.

In a few minutes more the remainder of the gates were

thrown open, and in rushed the undergraduates, pushing, squeezing, and thrusting each other up the staircases amidst shoutings, bellowings, the rending of gowns and cracking of caps, anxious to gain a good seat in the upper gallery. As half an hour had to be passed, of course it was better to let it pass merrily. Cheers were given for "the ladies," mingled hisses and groans for "the proctors." Approbation or disapprobation of the conduct of the respective "heads of houses" followed, and though last, not least, a very plain and marked opinion on the various political characters of the day.

Amidst all this din and uproar-at which the ladies always laughGod bless them!-for it is the din and uproar of high-spirited young gentlemen-the great doors were thrown open, the argan gave vent to its solemn peal, and the Vice-chancellor, preceded by the beadles, bearing the insignia of their office, and followed by a long train of Doctors, the rear being brought up by the Proctors, passed through the alley made for him in the area, and took his seat in the chair appropriated to him. As he and the heads of houses and the Proctors filled their hitherto vacant places, the shouts of applause and the hisses of disapproval were renewed with such superior vigour and force as proved that the shouts antecedent to their appearance had been a mere rehearsal.

The honorary degrees were in the first place conferred, after the opening of the convocation in due form by the Vice-chancellor, upon those individuals whom the university deemed worthy of so distinguished a mark of her favour. As each newly-created D.C.L., honoris causâ, took his seat among the Doctors, he was greeted with the warmest cheers from all parts of the theatre.

When this was finished the Public Orator and the Professor of Poetry went through the parts assigned them, making long Latin speeches much to the edification of the undergraduates, who would not listen to them, and of the ladies, who did not understand one word that was uttered. Then came the Latin and English essays-next the Latin verses, recited by Ploddington, the winner of the prize. All these successful candidates for university honours were received both at the commencement and termination of their exercise, with the loudest and most heart-cheering applause.

When Ploddington had retired from the rostrum all eyes were turned to it in anxious expectation of seeing the successful candidate for the most popular of all the prizes, the Newdigate English verse. A delay, an unaccountable delay took place. Five minutes had nearly elapsed when Ploddington returned, and led into the place which he had just before quitted, a tall, pale young man, who seemed too weak and too ill to go through the duties which his success had imposed upon him. He bowed to the Vice-chancellor, and cast an imploring glance as if for succour, upon all around him. A burst of applause shook the building. Again and again it was renewed, and would have been prolonged to a painful length had not the Vice-chancellor risen and waved his hand for silence. The shouts subsided, and the assembly was as still as some deserted charnel-house.

Pauperly for it was he-commenced the recitation of his poem in a voice melodious, but so subdued, that the first line or two were scarcely heard. As he warmed with his subject, however, the tones of his voice increased, and his confidence in himself was restored. He delivered

his fifty lines on a popular subject in a way at once so manly and impressive, that every heart was affected, every eye was moistened. When he concluded the plaudits were renewed, and the ladies waved their handkerchiefs to express their pleasure and delight—all but one-a lady dressed in a widow's mourning-suit-who fainted at the close of the recitation.

"Bless my soul!" said Mr. Pensive, "it is Mrs. Pauperly-his mother. It puts me in mind of what I read in the paper to-day about Lady Pumpkin, who fainted at the opera, and was carried out by two dukes." Why that was three years and a half ago," said the M.A. to whom he had spoken.

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"I should not wonder," replied Pensive, "but that is just where I am come to."

Joy seldom kills. Mrs. Pauperly soon recovered, and was conveyed by her son to the dining-room in Hall, where Dr. had invited a large party to take refreshments, and where, as a reward for his success and general good conduct, he, before the assembled company, presented Pauperly with 301. worth of useful books.

Pauperly was thus instigated to study on, under the care and superintendence of his kind physician. Thrice more did he appear in the rostrum of the theatre as a prize-man, and once too with his friend Ploddington.

When he went up for his final examination he was successful. He was sitting with his mother and Mr. Pensive waiting for the class list to come out. Ploddington rushed into the room with it in his hand, and pointed to his own name and that of his friend, which appeared together in the first class, in literis humanioribus as well as in mathematicis et physicis. The curtain must fall upon the scene that ensued.

Years have passed, reader, since the events I have recorded took place. Where, you may ask, is Mr. Pauperly now? How did his painful but successful course of study profit him? were his toils rewarded?

If you can gain access some day during the sitting of parliament to the House of Lords, do so. Stand behind the bar, or in the gallery, and cast your eyes on the benches to the right of the throne. They are the seats appropriated to the Bishops as lords spiritual. You may observe a tall, pale prelate, with a benevolent countenance and an eye beaming with talent. That tall, pale man, in the becoming dress of his order, was James Pauperly, the poor exhibitioner of Hall, Oxford-now he is James, by divine permission, Lord Bishop of The noble lord who has just crossed the house and is shaking hands with him is now Baron he was Ploddington of Ch. Ch.-he

sits as a retired Judge.

And where is Mrs. Pauperly?

If you feel disposed to call at the parsonage in the parish of in the county of Kent, you will see an aged but hale lady, sitting with solemn face and pretending to listen to the divine, her husband, who is reading with great gusto a newspaper five years old. Need I say that their names are Mr. and Mrs. Pensive, or that a mother's joy and gratitude conquered the regrets of a widow and induced her to become for the second time-a wife?

So successfully terminated "The struggle for fame.”

THE BARNABYS IN AMERICA.

BY MRS. TROLLOPE.

CHAP, I.

INTRODUCTORY.

THE affections of the human heart are various; all equally genuine, when nature is untampered with, but infinitely modified as to their intensity. The love of a parent for its offspring has been acknowledged on all hands to be one of the strongest, and least uncertain of these affections, partaking so largely of instinct, as fairly to class it among the immutable laws of nature, and though certainly shared by the beasts which perish, yet felt to be venerable from the divinity of the origin whence the common well-spring rises. There is a modification, however, of this parental love, which is wholly free from, and undegraded by any community either with the beasts of the field, the fishes of the sea, the reptiles which crawl upon the earth, or the birds which fly towards the heavens-there is a parental love, so purely spiritual, so wholly intellectual, as to place it in sublimity far above any other affection of the human heart.

"What may this be?" demand the uninitiated. Unhappy ones! Like a childless wife, and a husband without an heir, ye are unconscious of the fondest yearning that ever swelled a human breast! But is there an author who does not at once secretly acknowledge his sympathy in the feeling thus described? Oh no! not one.

Yet elevated as is the nature of this intellectual love, there be many who are shy to confess it. Many, strange to say, who affect a total indifference, nay, almost oblivion, concerning those offsprings of the brain, for whom by every law, human and divine, they ought to feel the tenderest partiality. "Let no such men be trusted"—it is doing them injustice to believe that they can be sincere.

Far otherwise is it with the progenitor of the Widow Barnaby. I scruple not to confess that with all her faults, and she has some, I love her dearly: I owe her many mirthful moments, and the deeper pleasure still of believing that she has brought mirthful moments to others also. Honestly avowing this to be the case, can any one wonder, can any one blame me, for feeling an affectionate longing at my heart to follow her upon the expedition upon which I sent her when last we parted? An expedition, too, that was to lead her to a land which all the world knows I cherish in my memory with peculiar delight? I will not believe it, but trusting to the long-established, and goodhumoured toleration of those who condescend to listen to my gossipings, I will forthwith proceed to tell them all that has happened to this dear excellent lady since General Hubert and Mr. Stephenson left her in her grand drawing-room in Curzon-street, surrounded by her family and friends.