and in which Hooker, in his young days, possibly flaunted in a vein of no discommendable vanity.  In the depth of college shades, or in his lonely chamber, the poor student shrunk from observation.  He found shelter among books, which insult not; and studies, that ask no questions of a youth’s finances.  He was lord of his library, and seldom cared for looking out beyond his domains.  The healing influence of studious pursuits was upon him, to soothe and to abstract.  He was almost a healthy man; when the waywardness of his fate broke out against him with a second and worse malignity.  The father of W——­ had hitherto exercised the humble profession of house-painter at N——­, near Oxford.  A supposed interest with some of the heads of the colleges had now induced him to take up his abode in that city, with the hope of being employed upon some public works which were talked of.  From that moment I read in the countenance of the young man, the determination which at length tore him from academical pursuits for ever.  To a person unacquainted with our Universities, the distance between the gownsmen and the townsmen, as they are called—­the trading part of the latter especially—­is carried to an excess that would appear harsh and incredible.  The temperament of W——­’s father was diametrically the reverse of his own.  Old W——­ was a little, busy, cringing tradesman, who, with his son upon his arm, would stand bowing and scraping, cap in hand, to any-thing that wore the semblance of a gown—­insensible to the winks and opener remonstrances of the young man, to whose chamber-fellow, or equal in standing, perhaps, he was thus obsequiously and gratuitously ducking.  Such a state of things could not last.  W——­ must change the air of Oxford or be suffocated.  He chose the former; and let the sturdy moralist, who strains the point of the filial duties as high as they can bear, censure the dereliction; he cannot estimate the struggle.  I stood with W——­, the last afternoon I ever saw him, under the eaves of his paternal dwelling.  It was in the fine lane leading from the High-street to the back of ***** college, where W——­ kept his rooms.  He seemed thoughtful, and more reconciled.  I ventured to rally him—­finding him in a better mood—­upon a representation of the Artist Evangelist, which the old man, whose affairs were beginning to flourish, had caused to be set up in a splendid sort of frame over his really handsome shop, either as a token of prosperity, or badge of gratitude to his saint.  W——­ looked up at the Luke, and, like Satan, “knew his mounted sign—­and fled.”  A letter on his father’s table the next morning, announced that he had accepted a commission in a regiment about to embark for Portugal.  He was among the first who perished before the walls of St. Sebastian.