the reception of the collection. It cannot be doubted that the Provost and
fellows would be gratified in granting a piece of ground for the purpose.

Great were the obligations of Coningsby to this Eton Library. It
introduced him to that historic lore, that accumulation of facts and
incidents illustrative of political conduct, for which he had imbibed an
early relish. His study was especially directed to the annals of his own
country, in which youth, and not youth alone, is frequently so deficient.
This collection could afford him Clarendon and Burnet, and the authentic
volumes of Coxe: these were rich materials for one anxious to be versed in
the great parliamentary story of his country. During the last year of his
stay at Eton, when he had completed his eighteenth year, Coningsby led a
more retired life than previously; he read much, and pondered with all the
pride of acquisition over his increasing knowledge.

And now the hour has come when this youth is to be launched into a world
more vast than that in which he has hitherto sojourned, yet for which this
microcosm has been no ill preparation. He will become more wise; will he
remain as generous? His ambition may be as great; will it be as noble?
What, indeed, is to be the future of this existence that is now to be sent
forth into the great aggregate of entities? Is it an ordinary organisation
that will jostle among the crowd, and be jostled? Is it a finer
temperament, susceptible of receiving the impressions and imbibing the
inspirations of superior yet sympathising spirits? Or is it a primordial
and creative mind; one that will say to his fellows, 'Behold, God has
given me thought; I have discovered truth, and you shall believe?'

The night before Coningsby left Eton, alone in his room, before he retired
to rest, he opened the lattice and looked for the last time upon the
landscape before him; the stately keep of Windsor, the bowery meads of