insults. His windows were pelted: sorely
to the grief of the poor philtat.

In sixteen hundred and thirteen, we find
him visiting Oxford, and sumptuously
entertained at Magdalen College. But ill-health
was now coining upon him—from an internal
complaint of a very peculiar character. On
his fifty-fifth birthday (sixteen hundred and
fourteen), he enters in his Diary:

"I find my bodily strength languishing."

And so it languished as the summer drew
nigh.

"Third of June.—My body languishes . . .
My studies are neglected, except that I turn
over the writings of Augustine." For some
days, he was still reading Augustine, and
getting worse. The last entry in his own
hand, is, " Thursday, sixteenth of June,
sixteen hundred and fourteen. I see that it
is now over with my studies, unless the Lord
Jesus otherwise order it. In this, too, be thy
will done, O Lord! " These were the last
words, and surely they were worthy words.
On the first of July, all warm baths and
other measures proving in vain, Isaac Casaubon
died. He was buried in Westminster
Abbey, as we have already said.

His son Meric Casaubon made England his
home; and for long years, held a Canterbury
prebend as his father had done. He lies
buried in Canterbury Cathedral, with a son
John, and a grandson Meric, in the last of
whom (a child) the scholar's line ended.
Out of this poor, brave, persecuted family of
French Protestants, came one to make it
famous; and then, it disappeared again.
The brave, kindly, profoundly-learned, and
earnestly pious man had the laborious and
various life we have seen; and it is a happy
chance that the preservation of his Diary
enables us to think of him with familiarity,
and know him to have had qualities, which
those who talk of the gold old commentators
of Europe as " pedants " only, would do well
to imitate. Casaubori's life was as good a
commentary on the stoic poet Persius, as the
work which he wrote with that title; and he
deserves a little corner in our hearts, as well
as in our Abbey.

THE ROVING ENGLISHMAN.

VERY COLD AT BUCHAREST.

IT is a bright clear morning, and the snow
lays white, crisp, and fair upon the ground.
There is a healthy buoyancy about the air,
which disposes the mildest men for practical
jokes, while the jovial are wrought up to a
state quite boisterous by cold and high
spirits. Individuals with mustaches like a
black frill of spears about their mouths, and
beards and shoulders of forty years' growth,
appear in open daylight with large catskin
muffs upon their hands and fur slippers on
their feet. Ladies are positively intrenched
and fortified in cloaks and tippets and shawls.
Peasant girls, only roll laughing along with
bare legs and arms, with eyes that absolutely
sparkle from merriment and frozen fun when
they observe the poor chilly stuff of which we
seem to be made.

My nose has been of a singular colour—
partly blue, partly a deep crimson—these
three days. I do not exactly know where my
hands are: I could not decide with the
smallest certainty about them if my
comforter depended on my doing so. It appears
to me as if my feet, under the direct
influence of some malevolent fairy, had been
turned into pin-cushions, and that my
rejoicing enemy—perhaps the nurse in my
elder brother's family—was ironically
puncturing on them, "Welcome little stranger,"
or some similar device, as expressive of
gratification at the birth of an heir to the
peerage, and the utter discomfiture of myself
and tailors. I should never be surprised to
trace those insulting words if I succeed in
getting off my boots without pulling off my
feet also when I venture to go to bed to-night.
I use the word venture with respect to going
to bed because it is almost as bold an enterprise
to retire to a couch of single wretchedness
as to leave it. I believe that the majority
of the population in these countries are
uncontrollably urged into the state of matrimony
by the irresistibly seductive prospect
of procuring a bed-warmer. I am given to
understand that it is customary among
married people here to toss up (I suppose nightcaps)
which shall be devoted to the common
cause, and go in to thaw the sheets; or that
the more equitable portion of that happy
community take it by turns. I am inclined
to think, however, that the lady generally
contrives to overreach her husband in this
respect, she is fond of exciting his courage into
rashness by repeated glasses of " poonch," or
powerful green tea and rum, about the hour
of bedtime. She has been known, also,
to plead successfully the necessity of doing
up her back hair and to watch the shudderings
of her lord between the sheets with
intense and hopeful enjoyment. When a
husband ceases to shudder, his wife knows
that she can venture to get into his place
without collapsing, and usually seizes the
time with the same accuracy of judgment as
is displayed by careful housewives in boiling
an egg. That process of thawing the bed is
as penetrating and miserable an agony as
can be conceived. The most robust man will
sink to half his size during the humbling
process. As for getting up, it is an exploit so
doughty as only to be accomplished by the
promptings of the most ravenous hunger. I
wonder how the ladies' medical men do.

You feel your clothes freezing on you as
you dress. You have no sooner left your
hotel than you appear to have been miraculously
endowed with diamonds, and very hard
ones, growing out of your head, eyes, ears,
nose, and mouth; or you may be the genius
of a crystal cave. Your whiskers set all