Even the poor relative thought she must do something, and sent a copy of “The Whole Duty of Man,” bound in very attractive variegated sheepskin, the edges nicely marbled.  From the divinity-student came the loveliest English edition of “Keble’s Christian Tear.”  I opened it, when it came, to the Fourth Sunday in Lent, and read that angelic poem, sweeter than anything I can remember since Xavier’s “My God, I love thee.”——­I am not a Churchman,—­I don’t believe in planting oaks in flower-pots,—­but such a poem as “The Rose-bud” makes one’s heart a proselyte to the culture it grows from.  Talk about it as much as you like,—­one’s breeding shows itself nowhere more than in his religion.  A man should be a gentleman in his hymns and prayers; the fondness for “scenes,” among vulgar saints, contrasts so meanly with that—­

  “God only and good angels look
  Behind the blissful scene,”—­

and that other,—­

  “He could not trust his melting soul
  But in his Maker’s sight,”—­

that I hope some of them will see this, and read the poem, and profit by it.

My laughing and winking young friend undertook to procure and arrange the flowers for the table, and did it with immense zeal.  I never saw him look happier than when he came in, his hat saucily on one side, and a cheroot in his mouth, with a huge bunch of tea-roses, which he said were for “Madam.”

One of the last things that came was an old square box, smelling of camphor, tied and sealed.  It bore, in faded ink, the marks, “Calcutta, 1805.”  On opening it, we found a white Cashmere shawl, with a very brief note from the dear old gentleman opposite, saying that he had kept this some years, thinking he might want it, and many more, not knowing what to do with it,—­that he had never seen it unfolded since he was a young super-cargo,—­and now, if she would spread it on her shoulders, it would make him feel young to look at it.

Poor Bridget, or Biddy, our red-armed maid of all work!  What must she do but buy a small copper breast-pin and put it under “Schoolma’am’s” plate that morning, at breakfast?  And Schoolma’am would wear it,—­though I made her cover it, as well as I could, with a tea-rose.

It was my last breakfast as a boarder, and I could not leave them in utter silence.

Good-bye,—­I said,—­my dear friends, one and all of you!  I have been long with you, and I find it hard parting.  I have to thank you for a thousand courtesies, and above all for the patience and indulgence with which you have listened to me when I have tried to instruct or amuse you.  My friend the Professor (who, as well as my friend the Poet, is unavoidably absent on this interesting occasion) has given me reason to suppose that he would occupy my empty chair about the first of January next.  If he comes among you, be kind to him, as you have been to me.  May the Lord bless you all!—­And we shook hands all round the table.