make a return to God and men, and which must go to make our stewardship more fearful, against the day of account! We have gifts differing. Far be it from me to insinuate that the life of an Oxford Fellow is ordinarily an idle or useless one. Many of them are as laborious and as useful men as ever wrote or thought, and great are the blessings which they diffuse around them. Too often have their generous hospitalities been mistaken for habitual self-indulgences; and even guests who have tasted their wine without a murmur, have sometimes gone away to complain of convivialities, of which they were themselves the exacting proponents. But when the question is not as to them, but as to ourselves, we are surely at liberty to prefer our humbler and less favoured lot! Shall we repine because we are Americans, and because we shall never live to see an Oxford in our own dear country? God forbid! I love to think that it is theirs to enjoy, and mine only to remember; and that if toil and self-denial are the lot of an American clergyman, he is, nevertheless, fulfilling a mission more immediately like that of his glorious Master, and less fraught with temptations to make one’s heaven this side the grave. I had seen the Duke of Wellington and Samuel Rogers. There was one whom I desired to see besides, and on some accounts, with deeper interest, to complete my hold upon the surviving past. For sixty years had Dr. Routh been president of Magdalen, and still his faculties were strong, and actively engaged in his work. I saw him in his 97th year; and it seemed as if I had gone back a century, or was talking with a reverend divine, of the olden time, who had stepped out of a picture-frame. He sat in his library, in gown and bands, wearing a wig, and altogether impressing me as the most venerable figure I had ever beheld. Nothing could exceed his cordiality and courtesy, and, though I feared to prolong my visit, his earnestness in conversation more than once repressed my endeavour to rise. He remembered our colonial clergy, and related the whole story of Bishop Seabury’s visit, and of his application to the Scottish Church, which Dr. Routh himself first suggested. ‘And now,’ said I, ‘we have thirty Bishops and 1,500 clergy.’ He lifted his aged hands, and said, “I have, indeed, lived to see wonders,” and he added devout expressions of gratitude to God, and many inquiries concerning our Church. I had carried an introduction to him from the Rev. Dr. Jarvis, and at the same time, announced the death of that lamented scholar and divine, whose funeral I had attended a few days before I sailed from America. He spoke of him with affection and regret, and also referred to his great regard for Bishop Hobart. I could not say farewell to such a patriarch, in the meaningless forms of ordinary intercourse, and, as I rose to depart, I craved his blessing, and humbly knelt to receive it. He placed his venerable hand upon my head, and said—“God Almighty bless you, for