sermon, whenever the appointment to that duty falls upon any member of Christ-church. The dean and canons invariably preach in the cathedral, and the masters of arts when they take the turn of any member of the chapter; but when they preach as graduates of the college, it is usual for them to proceed to St. Mary's. The principal interest belonging to the cathedral | The nave is used for the preaching of the university of Oxford arises out of the circumstances, that it is part both of an ancient monastic foundation, and of a modern protestant establishment-that it is a chapel to a noble college, and connected with many distinguished personages and events. Cardinal college, Henry the Eighth's college, and Christ-church -the several names which this church has held, grew out of two dissolved monasteries of blackcanons-the abbey of Oseney and the priory of St. Frides wide. In 1523 Cardinal Wolsey, either from ambition or a spirit of munificence, or from the union of both motives, resolved to found and cndow a college at Oxford, in which the sciences, theology, canon and civil law, should be studied, as well as arts, medicine, and polite learning generally, as well as for the celebration of divine service. The cardinal obtained permission to appropriate the proceeds of twenty priories and nunueries to the establishment of a school or college at this place. The revenues of these were estimated at 2,000l. Two bulls were obtained from pope Clement VII. in favour of the undertaking; and Wolsey was permitted to build his new college on the site of the dissolved priory of St. Frideswide. The name then given to it was "Cardinal college," the denomination of the clergy being "the dean and canous secular of the cardinal of York." This foundation was to consist of a dean, sub-dean, a hundred canons, thirteen chap- | lains, professors of divinity, law, medicine, and the liberal arts, and other persons, to the number of one hundred and eighty-six. The college was dedicated to the Holy Trinity, the virgin Mary, St. Frideswide, and All Saints. This grand foundation remained in its original state until 1529, when the fall of Wolsey interrupted its prosperity, though only for a brief period. Henry listened to his entreaties that it might be upheld, but, by giving his own name to the establishment, virtually transferred to himself the honour of its foundation. Accordingly, in 1532, the society was refounded by the king, under the title of " King Henry the Eighth's college, in Oxford." The year 1545 witnessed the surrender of its charter, by the dean and canons to the king, who dismissed them with yearly pensions until they should be otherwise provided. The king then changed the college into a cathedral church, translating the ep scopal see from Oseney, where it had been established in 1542, and also made a new annual endowment to the amount of 2,2007. The cathedral of Oxford consists of a nave with its aisles; a transept to the north, with a western aisle; a shorter transept on the south, with an aisle to the east; a choir; two other aisles, north of the same; a chapter-house, south of the church, with an intermediate aisle, and three sides of a cloister. One of the most striking features of the precincts of this cathedral is the entrance door-way from the cloister to the chapter-house. Possibly it may be more correct to call the style of its architecture the first Norman style than Saxon; but rarely can we see anything more beautiful in the class of the projecting zig-zag, than this door-way exhibits; and it is to be regretted that the spot is so ill calculated to set off its beauty, as the door-way cannot be seen from any distance. Its details may be inspected by those who stand in the cloister immediately before the chapter-house entrance; but it has not the advantage of an approach. The chapter-house is a peculiarly interesting room; the style of its architecture being that of the early pointed, with detached and clustered columns, bold bases, and highly enriched foliated capitals. The interior of this church is solemn and impressive; but it presents rather a heavy appearance. In the nave are many monuments, of strong interest to those who revere the piety and learning of by-gone days. There are none, indeed, in the cathedral very ancient or very fine, nor are they very numerous: those of Bishop King, Prior Philip, Lady Montacute, and that ascribed to Frideswide, constitute the sum of what could interest the antiquarian. But none can look upon that of Pocock, the orientalist, or of Peter Elmsley, the Greek critic-without sensations of deep respect. Nor can any who were their contemporaries read the epitaphs of Bishop Lloyd, or of Alexander Nicoll, the late professor of Hebrew, without sighing over the premature departure of eminently able men. And every one who visits this cathedral will leave it impressed with the pathos of the sitting statue of Cyril Jackson, the far-famed dean of Christ-church, whose presiding attitude is an apt emblem of the successful manner in which he superintended the interests and raised the character of this great college for many years. The monuments which have been enumerated are all in the nave; but the visitor who passes on into the transept on the left side of the choir, will come to another monument, of unique interest, raised to the memory of the author of a book of a rare and almost indescribable character, possessing perhaps much more to interest the curious than any other class of inquirers-the tablet (with effigy) of Burton, author of the "Anatomy of Melancholy." On the left of this transept is a chapel or aisle, in which the regius professor of divinity (a canon of Christ-church by virtue of his occupancy of that chair) delivers, every spring, his lectures to those young men who, having taken the degree of B.A., intend to offer themselves for holy orders; the certificate of the regius professor, of having attended his lectures, being usually deemed indispensab'e by the bishop to whom he offers himself as a candidate. Soon after the death of Wolsey-though the plan of levelling the existing edifice to make room for a new, more spacious, and splendid church was relinquished-it would appear that the roof of the present choir was constructed, and the church adapted for the cathedral of the service of the then new see. The roof is very beautiful, with rich tracery and pendents, and may be said to form the principal object of interest to the beholder. There is, besides the ordinary stalls of the dean and canons, a small unpretending throne for the bishop, who rarely attends the cathedral except at the two seasons of ordination. The stalls, pavement, and fitting-up of the choir appear to have been executed about the year 1630; and soon afterwards most of the windows were repaired, and ornamented with painted glass, the work of Van Linge. One of these contains the story of Jonah; another represents the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah; a third, in the divinity chapel, describes Christ disputing with the doctors. The principal east window, from a design by Sir James Thornhill, was painted in 1696. A small window in the north aisle has been spoken of by a late antiquarian as a singular curiosity," having been painted by a man named Isaac Oliver, in the eighty-fourth year of his age. At the north end of the choir is another window, with a full-length painting of Bishop King, of which Chalmers is the supposed author. THE NEW MONTHLY BELLE ASSEMBLÉE. DECEMBER, 1844. "Well, what news, fair cousin?" exclaimed young Melford, galloping up to Lady St. Maur's carriage, half way between Norwood and London, and checking his horse to a speaking pace. "Bad!" replied Lady Mary, mischievously. "Ida has only had reports confirmed." "Of course, that I expected, from Mrs. Russell's note; but are you satisfied, Ida?" "Not at all, I am as far from the truth as ever; except that Florence positively denied the charge." "Hurrah then, victory!" exclaimed Melford, joyously. "And Mrs. Russell-" Is much too prejudiced a person for her assertions to have any weight, even I acknowledge," said Lady Mary, frankly. "But what did she say?" "Only what we already know," replied the Countess. "She went on a visit to her friends in Hampshire, was of course questioned as to her new governess, heard all the reports, and without deigning a single question as to whether or not Florence was the person supposed, dismissed her on the instant. Of course her story to me was very precise, and very plausible; but I give you its interpretation." "Have you any clue to Miss Leslie's present residence?" "I fear none. Mrs. Russell thought she lived at Peckham or Camberwell, but could not pretend to say; the less she had to do with such a person, she thought, the better." "I will find her, if I call at every house in both those places;" muttered Melford. "To prove her innocence, or deny my penetration a triumph, Mr. Melford ?" demanded Lady Mary, archly. "To prove," he replied, so gravely, almost reproachfully, that Lady Mary unconsciously felt rebuked, "how much more kindly and justly woman is judged by man than by her own sex." "You forget Ida and the Earl," replied Lady Mary, rallying. "Ida is incapable of so petty a feeling as prejudice. Even if she had not known Florence, her judgment would be the same as it is now. The Earl never knew Miss Leslie, and is annoyed that the very shadow of a doubt should rest on any one in whom his wife is interested." "You are a barrister, Mr. Melford, and will of course make your client's cause good," answered Lady Mary, jestingly; but if the truth must be written, she was not quite pleased, having just that sort of lurking inclination towards young Melford which made her feel annoyed that any other woman should so occupy his thoughts. Melford kept his word. Every hour he could snatch from his studies he devoted to his cousin's service, and at length succeeded in discovering the lodging at Camberwell which Mrs. Leslie had occupied, but, to his great disappointment, it was then untenanted. From the landlady, however, he heard much to deepen his interest in the search. Mrs. Everett had become so attached to her lodgers, that, with the garrulity of her class, she poured forth all they had encountered from sickness and privation; and how the young ladies had worked to pay her rent, and prevent bills running on; and how the young gentleman had painted the beautifullest pictures, and wrote such fine poetry, that she used to listen and listen, and the words were so grandlike, yet so simple, they made her feel as her Bible did. "Poor young gentleman," she continued, "he was almost an angel before he died; and I am sure he is one now!" and she put her apron to her eyes. "Has "Died!" repeated young Melford. there been a death lately in the family, then?” "Bless your kind heart, yes sir; and that was Y for why the poor lady, his mother, and her daughter, left me. Natural like, they could not bear to remain where everything reminded them of him; for I never saw such love as existed between 'em all. I am sure the poor young man killed himself. Why bless you, he used at one time to sit up half the night writing those fine poems; and then he got ill. Miss Leslie was out as a governess then, and never knew how ill her poor brother was till he was a little better, and she came home suddenly, and when she got a little over her own misfortunes-for between you and me, sir, I think that good-for-nothing hard woman with whom she lived had said something very shameful about her character, almost taking it from her, when, bless you, she was innocent as a lamb, so good and religious, and devoted to her family. She could no more have acted as they said she did than I could, and it was so cruel to say she was a bad girl, and so deprive her of bread." "I knew it was a lie;" Melford burst forth at this point, to Mrs. Everett's great surprise. "La, sir! you startle me. Howsomdever, perhaps it was all the happier for her to be at home, when her poor brother was so weak and ill; but she used to go and teach every day nearly two miles off, trudged through hail and rain, cold and snow, when she would shake again from weakness, and perhaps sitting up the greater part of the night; and when I have begged her not, she used to say, with such a sweet smile, it made my heart ache" Who is to pay your rent, dear Mrs. Everett, if I do not work; and how can we be unjust to you, when you are so kind?" "But she had a sister, had she not?" here interposed Melford; "did she do nothing?" "Nothing! bless you sir, she worked at her needle as hard as any of them; but she was too young, too pretty to go out as Miss Florence did: she wanted to do it, and cried often enough that she was not like other girls. Ah, sir, Mr. Leslie was quite right; though she was too pretty to go out alone, or be dependent, you never saw such a lovely face, or heard such a voice-it was like an angel's. I have come and listened to her singing on a Sunday night, and felt myself in heaven; for then she only sung words from the Bible, but such beautiful solemn tunes; and to have seen how her mother and sister and Mr. Walter listened and looked at her, it would have been a good lesson to some families who don't know what family love is. Ah, sir, it is very, very hard when gentlefolks like them becomes so poor, and obliged to work like slaves, much harder than for folks in my station. We are born to it, and can work without feeling it. Well, sir, the poor young gentleman wrote and wrote, and painted even when he could not walk, and at last finished a book, which, natural like, he wanted printed. Oh, sir, how his poor sister worked to gratify him; up earlier than ever, often out almost before the light, and not home till so late, and at last she got a gentleman to agree, and pay nearly all the expenses; and what do you think she did to make up the money? why, without telling him, sold all her jewels. She had not many; but one she loved so rouch, a beautiful cross and chain, some dear friend had given her, and oh! how cut up she was in parting with it; but she did not hesitate, for she never thought of herself or her own sufferings, and so it was sold; and after all, her poor brother is gone to a better world, and what will the book be to him?" "And how long ago was this?" inquired Melford. "Some time last May, sir; but poor Miss Leslie knew he must die weeks before. Oh! what an hour that was! but she bore up for her brother's sake, and her poor mother's, and only sank when he did not need her any more. I thought she would have never recovered from the swoon she had when she came home, and found he was deadhad died, sir, in the very act of finishing a beautiful picture. She was very, very ill, and I think that kept poor Mrs. Lesiie up; but I fear me she will not last long, and those two poor young ladies will be left without a single friend." And the good woman actually sobbed. Melford respected the feeling, and so kindly assured her that they had friends, that he had, ia fact, come on the part of one most anxious to discover them, that she soon recovered herself. "Bless you, sir, for such good news! Well, as soon as poor Miss Leslie could be moved, they went to an old relation somewhere in Berkshire; and Miss Minie, sweet soul! wrote to me often to tell me how her poor sister was, and grieving that they must change their lodgings. I havn't heard where they are now; for Miss Minie wrote the last time all in the bustle of moving and settling, and forgot to put the direction, but said she would come and see me very soon. And bless your heart, sir, she will be sure to come, for she is a true lady, as they all are; not a bit of pride about 'em." Alfred Melford was an eloquent narrator; and so simply and touchingly did he repeat Mrs. Everett's communications, that not one of his auditors, even the prejudiced Lady Mary or the stagnant Emily, could listen to him unmoved. "Ida, dearest Ida! I have indeed been too prejudiced; but I know if you find this poor girl you will forgive me, and let me aid your labour of kindness," exclaimed Lady Mary, warmly, as she knelt down playfully on the cushion at the Countess's feet. "What are you thinking about so sorrowfully? We shall find her, depend upon it." "I was thinking, Mary, why she should never have written to me in her brother's behalf; her own sufferings I know she would never have revealed. But why she should never have appealed to my promised influence, for him whom it might have so beneficially served, perplexes me more than ever." "Her letter may have been lost, miscarried, or even changed." "Changed!" repeated Lady St. Maur, eagerly interrupting him. "Alfred, if such a thing were really possible, you have given me the clue to all the apparent mystery of Florence's conduct. You not only aid me by active service, but by your ready judgment; how can I thank you?" "Do not thank me at all, cousin mine," he answered, laughing; "thank your own persevering benevolence, without which, this poor girl must |