of conviviality.  We had been at Harrow together; but—­there, at least—­his was a less boisterous spirit than mine.  I was always cricketing—­rebelling—­fighting—­rowing (from row, not boat-rowing, a different practice), and in all manner of mischiefs; while he was more sedate and polished.  At Cambridge—­both of Trinity—­my spirit rather softened, or his roughened, for we became very great friends.  The description of Sabrina’s seat reminds me of our rival feats in diving.  Though Cam’s is not a very translucent wave, it was fourteen feet deep, where we used to dive for, and pick up—­having thrown them in on purpose—­plates, eggs, and even shillings.  I remember, in particular, there was the stump of a tree (at least ten or twelve feet deep) in the bed of the river, in a spot where we bathed most commonly, round which I used to cling, and ‘wonder how the devil I came there.’

“Our evenings we passed in music (he was musical, and played on more than one instrument, flute and violoncello), in which I was audience; and I think that our chief beverage was soda-water.  In the day we rode, bathed, and lounged, reading occasionally.  I remember our buying, with vast alacrity, Moore’s new quarto (in 1806), and reading it together in the evenings.

“We only passed the summer together;—­Long had gone into the Guards during the year I passed in Notts, away from college. His friendship, and a violent, though pure, love and passion—­which held me at the same period—­were the then romance of the most romantic period of my life.

* * * * *

“I remember that, in the spring of 1809, H——­ laughed at my being distressed at Long’s death, and amused himself with making epigrams upon his name, which was susceptible of a pun—­Long, short, &c.  But three years after, he had ample leisure to repent it, when our mutual friend and his, H——­’s, particular friend, Charles Matthews, was drowned also, and he himself was as much affected by a similar calamity.  But I did not pay him back in puns and epigrams, for I valued Matthews too much myself to do so; and, even if I had not, I should have respected his griefs.

“Long’s father wrote to me to write his son’s epitaph.  I promised—­but I had not the heart to complete it.  He was such a good amiable being as rarely remains long in this world; with talent and accomplishments, too, to make him the more regretted.  Yet, although a cheerful companion, he had strange melancholy thoughts sometimes.  I remember once that we were going to his uncle’s, I think—­I went to accompany him to the door merely, in some Upper or Lower Grosvenor or Brook Street, I forget which, but it was in a street leading out of some square,—­he told me that, the night before, he ’had taken up a pistol—­not knowing or examining whether it was loaded or no—­and had snapped it at his head, leaving it to chance whether it might or might not be charged.’  The