Her bigot wrath.
A chosen few there were,
Who sad and silent sought their homes, to weep
For their loved prelates; yet no railing word,
Or vengeful purpose breathed, but waiting stood
For their own test of conscience and of faith
Inflexible.
This was the flock of Christ.
Tuesday, Oct. 27, 1840.
On the evening of our arrival at Oxford, we were admonished of being in the classic atmosphere of the University, by the tones of the "Mighty Tom," the great bell of Christ Church, which weighs 17,000 lbs., and at ten minutes after nine tolls 101 times, the number of the established students, or fellows of that College. In our subsequent visit to that Institution, where the sons of the nobility are educated, we saw their tables spread in the spacious hall, 115 feet in length, and 50 in height, built by Cardinal Wolsey, in the days of his magnificence. His portrait, in crimson robes, was hanging near that of his Master, Henry the Eighth, whose capricious temper wrought his destruction. A rude, triangular garden-chair, which he used to occupy, when superintending the workmen upon the grounds, or the edifice, is still preserved in the library; and seating myself within its no very luxurious purlieus, the pathos of his dying words seemed to come freshly over me:
