appetite is small-so small that his father scarcely grudges the morsel that he eats; except that now and then it is delicate also, and then he is told, that people who do no work are not entitled to be 'nice' in their tastes. Being left to solitude, he borrows for his amusement a few books, meditates, ventures to form an opinion or two, but keeps them, wisely, to himself. For the most part of the year he is the inmate of the chimney-corner; but sometimes (in summer time) he crawls abroad with his stick, and gathers a few of the hedge-row flowers; or else, he lies down on the little patch of grass near his parents' cottage, like a beggar in the sun.

Alas, for the young worshipper of literature-the poor book-worm and genius of the family! What a melancholy future lies before him! He has neither cunning nor wealth to uphold him-scarcely industry in the common phrase, for he cannot adapt his intellect to all purposes. The merely clever boy has his wits at his fingers' ends — is prepared for any demand declamation, an epigram, a theme, a slander, or an eulogy. Such a one can accommodate himself ('accommodate is a good word') to anything. His conscience is free, or rather, he has no conscience, but simply an elastic humor, that can shrink or extend itself, like the body of the snake. But the book-worm

- a

he (like Cassio) has a soul to be saved; he cannot be all things to all men, nor lie away the life of another for an ounce of copper. It is not difficult to prophesy their several fortunes. Could we pull down the blanket of the dark,' we should behold, in one, an editor, prosperous and without principle, pandering to

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the passions of the high or the low- the propagator of false doctrines - the mercenary of the army of Cant doing dirty things for base bribes, or hiding his envy or his malice behind a vizor of ass's skin or a mask of brass. In the other, we might see the poor prose author, on whose brain (coined into drachmas) the bookseller dines sumptuously every day; or the poorer poet; or the usher, struggling for his bitter bread.

But we must take things in their order. Before our hero can become an usher, he must pass through the probationary troubles of boyhood. He was, as we say, a sickly child; but he grows in somewise, out of the ailments of his infancy, and gives promise at last of becoming a man. He is not likely to rise in the usual way but he is suspected now of being not altogether without a brain; and, therefore, it is by his brain that he must learn to live. He is sent to school. A few natural tears' he sheds on leaving his home; but these are soon dried. In truth, he has little to lament. The old dog, indeed, who prefers him to all the world, and who, perhaps, may not live till he returns at the Christmas holydays, is his friend. He takes leave of him with swollen eyes. They- the twohave worn away many an hour together-many a day. They have fed together-slept together. It is a grievous parting, this from his old companion. But it is written down in the book of Fate that the boy must depart, and he goes accordingly to the detested school.

His school-days may be disposed of in a single paragraph; for at school he is much like other boys : less boisterous, perhaps; more studious; and (from his

incapacity for the stronger exercises) more solitary. He is not great at foot-ball, nor at hockey; but he can bowl down the middle stump of the wicket, and at rackets he is not to be despised. And, although not strong, he has a spirit within him. He will fight against desperate odds, against greater skill and greater strength; and, more than all, against the applause of a circle of critics shouting for his rival, a tyrant long accustomed to conquer. At last, for weight and skill must prevail, our solitary is struck down senseless. But he has fought a good fight; and the urchins, who met to mock him, are compelled to own that there is pluck in the peasant. There that will do, Grimes. He shan't fight any more. He is a devilish good bit of stuff. Take him away.' And he is taken away thereupon. He has lost a battle; but he has achieved renown. The respect of his colleagues follows him, and his school-life is tranquil afterwards.

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Five or six years passed at school render him familiar with many problems. He demonstrates readily things which, at first sight, seemed insuperable. He has mastered Latin: he has plunged deep into Greek. He is a tolerable mathematician; and (it is a private vice) he occasionally addicts himself to verse. The books which are lent out by the master during leisure hours lead him into flowery paths. Shakspere is there, Milton, Jeremy Taylor, the Essayists, some of the works of Cervantes and Le Sage, and odd volumes of plays and poetry. Here is food for dreams! By the time that he arrives at the age of seventeen years, he is something like a man in intellect. His frame is still somewhat fragile; but his mind is keen, active, robust.

His eyes are quick and glittering, eager, restless, or at times lifted up in holy meditation, fancy free,' to the stars and the unfathomed heavens to regions where the Muse of Poetry hides, to be drawn down by - is it not possible? - himself! He has a rapt and abstracted look; but at intervals he utters shrewd things or lofty maxims; is philosophical, worldly-wise in theory, or transcendental, as the humor varies. His friends begin to respect him. His father feels an unknown pride dawning upon him: he is proud of possessing such a son. People say that his mind is above his years. And to prove this, he falls in love! Poor wretch ! What's Eleanore to him, or he to Eleanore? And yet he casts himself into the wild billows of passion to struggle, suffer, and, perhaps, drown at last. In the mean time, however, all is not dark for he can dream! The ivory gate' is opened even to the humblest; and within its portals he can now discover wonders beyond the riches of Maugraby or Aladdin - wonders that present themselves in a thousand different aspects-hours, and days, and years of unalloyed delight; and, in the midst of all, Her, the queen and pageant of his dreams - the star and cynosure, by whose steadfast light he hopes to steer his frail barque past Fortunate Islands, and through summer seas, far into the dim perspective — ay, even to that calm eternal haven, where all weary voyagers pause and are at rest!

away

But now comes the time when he must act and not dream, when the student is to be a student no longer. He is about to migrate, to soar. He is no more (as Lingo says exultingly) to be a scholar, but a master

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of scholars.' The student becomes an usher. Like Bottom, he is transformed. The transition is like a change to the tropics. It is a step such as Cæsar took when he passed the Rubicon. But lately, and he had his father's arm to hold by; now he must stand alone. He goes, in effect, into an unexplored country; without chart or compass. He has assumed a character in the world:- let us see how he prospers.

First, he is introduced to the master of the school. He knocks at the Academy' gate. After some delay, a footman (pulling on a striped jacket) opens the door. Our usher hesitates; and the slovenly menial measures him with a calculating eye, looks coldly at him, and finally half-inclines his ear to learn his wants. The usher's name and business are declared, and he is admitted, cautiously, into the kitchen. There he waits, while the servant proceeds into the parlor and announces that a person who calls himself Mayne, the new usher, -is in the kitchen. Is he to come in?' An order in the affirmative is given, and our hero stands face to face with his master. Mr. Birch is a great man; the founder of a flourishing academy; where everything accessible to the human intellect is taught, for thirty pounds per Not that the master teaches these things, nor, in truth, anything; he is simply the capitalist. He has married Mistress Birch-tart, tall, middle-aged, a withering virgin, with £1200 ready money, and has set up a factory for education. To carry on this, he has only to hire the heads of other men, classical scholar, one French ditto, one accountant

annum.

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