like Addison's or Irving's: these have "a grace beyond the reach of art." The possession of a truly elegant and simply graceful prose style is a gift more rare, perhaps, than even the poetic faculty itself. You may almost count the number of such writers on the fingers: England has scarce a dozen such in her whole literature; and among these, Addison is chief.

To return to Addison's Walk. The day had been rather dull and cloudy; but, as I sat there, the sun came out brightly, lighting up the grove, and casting the shadows of the trees gracefully on the meadow, -gilding the whole scene. I was glad to see the place in the cheerful sun-light. This very sun, I thought, had often looked upon him as he sat there, and I thanked it for coming out now to look on me in the same spot.

Just then, a graceful little skiff-one of the Oxford racers-came by on the Cherwell, with a young gentleman in it, practising at the oar. I rose and followed; for I was reminded that the day was passing, and I had yet much to see in Oxford. As I went on, I several times met students in cap and gown-young Addisons, perhaps, or hoping to become such—hastening towards "the Walk." Keeping along the path by the river side, I found it brought me round again to the gate through which I had entered, near Addison's Corner (as it may be called) the angle of the building, where, as before mentioned, his room was situated.

Passing through the gates of Magdalen College, which I shall always hereafter remember with interest, I crossed the road, and in a few minutes found

myself on another beautiful walk by the great meadow of Christ-Church College. On one side is a grand avenue, called the Broad Walk, but I preferred following the banks of the Cherwell to its confluence with the Isis. This walk is a mile and a quarter round a grand promenade for the students. Indeed the grounds round these colleges, set apart for the recreation and delight of the members of the university, are perfectly charming. The grounds on which I was then walking were, I believe, the gift of the magnificent Cardinal Wolsey, who was the founder of Christ-Church College.

I entered the cathedral, where service is held daily at four o'clock. It was now nearly dark, and candles were burning here and there in the distant choir,—while the sweet voices of the boys were chanting the Lord's Prayer and the Creed, closing with the long drawn A-men. Theoretically, I do not admire, and cannot approve of, this mechanical recitation of the language of worship by boys, whose minds are evidently not at all in the service,—but still it was pleasing to the ear.

Coming out of the cathedral, I crossed over to Pembroke College, and visited the room which Johnson had occupied. It is over the gateway. I saw also his bedroom at the head of the stairs, down which, as Boswell relates, Johnson indignantly kicked the shoes which some benevolent person had set at his door. "Here," said the porter, "was the place where he kicked the shoes off."

How rich in memories are these old haunts!

Most interesting to me was this ancient seat of literature, this city of colleges. There are few places in England more attractive than Oxford, whether for the charm of association or for intrinsic elegance and beauty.

THE COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.

There scattered oft, the earliest of the year,
By hands unseen,-are showers of violets found:
The redbreast loves to build and warble there,
And little footsteps lightly print the ground.

GRAY.

WHAT Addison is to English prose, Gray is to English poetry. Neither of them wrote much; but what each did write is exquisitely done, and remains, each in its own sphere, a model of beauty. I refer rather, however, to those portions of their works, which are the most generally known and read. Addison's Italian Travels and Dialogues on Medals are read scarcely at all, and Gray's "Pindaric Odes" are not general favourites. When we speak of "Addison," we always mean his essays in the Spectator; and when we mention "Gray," we generally think of his "Elegy in a Country Churchyard."

This sweet poem has endeared the name of its author to thousands of hearts on both sides of the Atlantic, and will doubtless endure when poems of much greater pretensions have sunk into oblivion. It has, indeed, already passed its term of probation -its hundred years; and thus, according to literary canons, its immortality is secure. It was published in 1751, and from the first was highly popular,

running at once through no fewer than eleven editions. It is related, that General Wolfe received a copy of this poem on the eve of his assault upon Quebec, and was so struck with its beauty, as to exclaim that he would rather have been the author of that poem, than have the glory of taking Quebec to-morrow. And no wonder he felt so: the fame of a conqueror is not to be compared with that of a great writer. The one has, indeed, his passing day of glory: his name is published far and wide, and his exploit is talked and written about for a time. But the waves of succeeding events soon cover it from sight, and it is forgotten,—or remembered only as one in a long series of similar violent acts that go to make up the world's sad history. But the work of a great writer is not merely a passing event,—not merely a circumstance, which, when once gone by, has laboriously to be sought for among the details of the dead past: but it continues to be a present living power; the production becomes itself a producer; it is a voice addressing you,- -an orator urging, an arguer convincing, or a poet charming you: in a word, it is thought, which is alive and spiritual and immortal; and being a spark of the Eternal Fire, it blazes still, and, like the perpetual sun, meets ever the new-born days and ages with fresh beams.

There is an interesting remembrance for us, Americans, connected with Gray's Elegy. Our great and lamented statesman, Daniel Webster, referred to it just before his death. The following touching account of that great man's last hours appeared in the papers of the time :