ch Oxford men are so ambitious, and yet, like his great
rival, William Pitt, he became a statesman before he was of age.

[Illustration: FOX'S ARBOR.]

FOX'S ARBOR.

At St. Anne's Hill he enjoyed as many intervals of repose and tranquillity
as could fall to a statesman's lot; in the time of wars and tumults, how
he must have luxuriated in its delicious quiet, surrounded by friends who
dearly loved him; and swayed only for good by the wife who (although it is
known that her early intimacy with him was such as prevented her general
recognition in society) according to the evidence of all who knew her, was
the minister only to his better thoughts and nobler ambitions, and who
weaned him from nearly all the follies and vices which stained his youth
and earlier manhood. Various causes led to his death, before age had added
infirmities to disease. He died at Chiswick House, and his last words,
addressed to Mrs. Fox were, "I die happy." It is said he wished to be
buried at Chertsey, but his remains were interred in Westminister Abbey.

The brilliant Sheridan pronounced so elegant an eulogium on his character,
that it is pleasant to think of it in those shades where, as we have said,
he so often sought and found repose: "When Mr. Fox ceased to live, the
cause of private honor and friendship lost its highest glory, public
liberty its most undaunted champion, and general humanity its most active
and ardent assertor. In him was united the most amiable disposition with
the most firm and resolute spirit; the mildest manners, with the most
exalted mind. With regard to that great man it might, indeed, be well
said, that in him the bravest heart and most exalted mind sat upon the
seat of gentleness."

[Illustration: COWLEY'S SEAT.]

COWLEY'S SEAT.

[Illustration: COWLEY'S HOUSE--STREET FRONT.]

COWLEY'S HOUSE--STREET FRONT.

There is, at all events, an imaginary pleasure in turning from the wearing
out turmoil of a statesman's life, to what the world believes the tranquil
dreams of a poet's existence. But there are few things the worldling so
little understands as literary industry, or so little sympathizes with as
literary care. We have no inclination to over-rate either its toils or its
pleasures, and perhaps no life is more abundantly supplied with both. Its
toils must be evide