up my fortunes, are fixing in the sandy basis of futurity an edifice formed of glittering words, incorporeal as the breath that rears it.  And the feelings of that hour come back upon me.  I glow with animation, confidence, and love.  I have the strong delight that beats within the bosom of the boy who has the parents’ trusty smile for ever on him.  I dream of pouring happiness into those fond hearts—­of growing up to be their prop and staff in their decline.  I pierce into the future, and behold myself the esteemed and honoured amongst men—­the patient, well-rewarded scholar—­the cherished and the cherisher of the dear authors of my life—­all brightness—­all glory—­all unsullied joy.  The child touches my wet cheek, and asks me why I weep?—­why?—­why?  He knows not of the early wreck that has annihilated the unhappy teacher’s peace.

We were still engaged upon our lesson, when John Thompson interrupted the proceeding, by entering the apartment in great haste, and placing in my hands a newspaper.  “He had been searching,” he said, “for one whole fortnight, to find a situation that would suit me, and now he thought that he had hit upon it.  There it was, ‘a tutorer in a human family,’ to teach the languages and the sciences.  Apply from two to four.  It’s just three now.  Send the youngster to his mother, and see after it, my friend.  I wouldn’t have you lose it for the world.”  I took the journal from his hands, and, as though placed there by the hand of the avenger to arouse deeper remorse, to draw still hotter blood from the lacerated heart, the following announcement, and nothing else, glared on the paper, and took possession of my sight.

“UNIVERSITY INTELLIGENCE.  After a contest more severe than any known for years, MR JOHN SMITHSON, of Trinity College, Cambridge, has been declared THE SENIOR WRANGLER of his year.  Mr Smithson is, we understand, the son of a humble curate in Norfolk, whose principal support has been derived from the exertions of his son during his residence in the University.  The honour could not have been conferred on a more deserving child of Alma Mater.”

A hundred recollections crowded on my brain.  My heart was torn with anguish.  The perseverance and the filial piety of Smithson, so opposite to my unsteadiness and unnatural disloyalty, confounded and unmanned me.  I burst into tears before the faithful Thompson, and covered my face for very shame.

“What is the matter, lad?” exclaimed the good fellow, pale with surprise, his eye trembling with honest feeling.  “Have I hurt you?  Drat the paper!  Don’t think, Stukely, I wished to get rid of you.  Don’t think so hard of your old friend.  I thought to help and do you service; I know you have the feelings of a gentleman about you, and I wouldn’t wound ’em, God knows, for any thing.  There, think no more about it.  I am so rough a hand, I’m not fit to live with Christians.  I mean no harm, believe me.  Get rid of you, my boy!  I only wish you’d say this is your home, and never leave me—­that would make me happy.”