the ludicrous-the two being mutually involvedhe could never resist to his latest day, got the better of him at the Comitia Verna, as it did a few evenings later at the Theatre Royal. Had the opera on the latter occasion been anything loftier than La Traviata, I have no doubt his indignation against his fellow-deities would have been fierce and demonstrative, as it ever was when good music was interrupted by the unseemly noises of that boisterous assembly; but on this occasion he was at one with them:-" Monday, Feb. 27.—Rose at 41. Read with imperturbable pertinacity. Went with W**** to the 'gods.' 'Pelted' between us the incredible number of 31 oranges!.. La Traviata-Piccolomini." And the disturbance that night seems to have been more than ordinarily outrageous; in the next day's entry he records "Three medical students sentenced by ****, the magistrate, to one fortnight's imprisonment and the treadmill, in consequence of last night's row;" but whether or not he had been misinformed as to the exact nature and degree of the punishment inflicted it does not appear.

At this time he frequently attended at the debates in the College Historical Society, and in the Philosophical Society of Dublin University; and, in connection with the former, mentions Mr. W. E. H. Lecky (since distinguished as the author of the History of Rationalism) and the Hon. David Plunket (late Her Majesty's eloquent Solicitor-General for

Ireland) as its foremost speakers. His perusals of Shakespeare were now again constant and close; and many a delightful evening was spent with his two oldest and closest friends, in reading a play, or Sartor Resartus, or some other fresh book; or in debating a literary or a philosophic question, each discussion being preluded with an "æsthetic tea." Sartor Resartus, picturing many phases of thought and emotion so closely resembling those through which he had himself passed during the two preceding years, came bearing influences of the most healthful and invigorating kind; and perhaps its primary good result was the mental relief it afforded by casting into an objective mould, in which he might calmly and critically examine them as an eternal observer, the pent-up agonies which had been so long racking the secret bosom and wearying the introverted eye.

The opera being in Dublin this spring, as we have seen, he was sure to be a spectator as often as was within the limits of possibility. That passionate love of music, indeed, which had manifested itself from his earliest childhood; which had led him from cathedral to cathedral, from concert to concert; and which often had drawn him away for miles (as has been narrated) at the sound of a military. band, playing gay march or funeral dirge; seemed to find in the opera its richest and most varied enjoy

ment.

On the evening of the 7th March, he had gone to the theatre with his old friend and companion of many mountain rambles, and had been an enraptured listener to music then to him quite new. It was a night of large and elevated pleasure, and his mind was filled with the most delightful dreams. When the opera was over-as he had a long way to go, and intended walking home, according to his wont-he was hurrying down the stairs, when he slipped, and his ankle turned under him. The wrench gave him acute pain, and on attempting to set off upon his walk, he found himself unable to proceed. So, lightly clad and overheated as he was, he sprang upon an outside car, and drove the three miles home in cold, frosty air. He arrived at the house in a chill, but thought more of his ankle; and, after having had the latter steeped and bandaged, went to bed. The ankle soon grew strong, and gave him no more trouble; but the chill had brought on an insidious cold. Of this he took no heed, until it began to assume a most disagreeable form. As the days went on, he felt more and more depressed and out of order, and complained of frequent headaches. Still he persevered in his studies, rose early, went to bed late, read, wrote, and took his usual rapid walks. And if he awoke a little later than he desired, now and then, it was no fault of his own, but of the alarm-clock, which refused to strike; and "Confound the alarum clock," varied

occasionally by "Confounde ye alarum clocke," is a frequent imprecation in his journal of these days.

On Saturday, the 17th, a long walk was taken, and the evening was spent in reading with his two companions, first Cymbeline, and, afterwards, again Sartor Resartus. On the Sunday following he complained of what he believed to be a bilious headache; and on Monday he writes:-"Rose at 4. Read hard all the morning. Bilious headache. Read at Dub. Soc. all day. Eyes so stiff that I could not turn them in my head. Came home at 5. Could not read in the evening, I was so ill. Got feet bathed, and a mustard-blister to my neck." The next day he was so ill that he was unable to go out; so lay all day on a sofa; and in the evening became On Wednesday he felt better, but began to think it prudent to relax his exertions a little. "I think it better not to read any more this week,” he writes, “and to adopt the first arrangement in the Table of Regulations for this month. I have got beyond what I originally intended." He was exhorted to see his physician, and set off partly with the intention of doing so; but, on the way, he met his friend B*******, turned back with him, and took a long walk, hoping to shake off the illness by his usual remedy of exercise.

much worse.

The next day, feeling still better, and hoping to improve matters by a good bracing ramble in the

CHAPTER V. 1860. ÆT. 18-.

Twelve Weeks of Precarious Illness.—Trying Kindnesses. -Mental Pain.-Returning Strength.-Restoration of Intellectual Energy.-Varied Readings.-More Illus trative Extracts from Diary.-An Amusing Incident.— A Comedy written.-Abhorrence of the "Revival" Movement. Convalescence. More Poems: "The Dream of Doubt;""Psyche.". Sonnets: "Immortal Longings."-The Athanasian Creed.

IS journal bears record of twelve weary weeks of illness, following that terrible rupture, four of which were passed, as he describes, "sitting in the house disconsolately." Yet even the four worst were not without intellectual activity and intellectual fruit. He read much-particularly in history and literature; and when he could sit up, and hold the pen with firmness, he revised and copied out his poems written in the preceding year. But such work as this soon exhausted him, and he was obliged to forbear. His sudden and dangerous illness, so utterly unexpected, was a great shock to his fellow-students, many of whom visited him, when he was allowed to see them, and bore messages of sympathy and