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ROXOBEL.

CHAPTER I.

INTRODUCTION.

It is now scarcely twelve months since I was deprived, by death, of a friend who, for the last fifteen years, has contributed more largely to my happiness, and more decidedly, I trust, to my spiritual good and intellectual improvement, than any human being I ever have been, or ever can hope to be associated with in this world of mingled good and evil.

I was a young man just entered into the ministry when I first was honoured with his notice, and, I rejoice to say, that, from the

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period of our first acquaintance till the moment of our separation, there was not one interruption of the even and delightful tenor of our friendly and, to me, highly improving intercourse.

The beloved individual of whom I am speaking, was, had he been measured by line and rule as a tailor would measure his customer, one of the least, and, altogether, most minute of any individual of the human race, not exactly counted a dwarf, with whom I ever met, although he rose in the scale of real greatness above all persons I ever knew, when the sterling qualities of his mind and heart were duly appreciated; for, assuredly, no mortal man was ever elevated like this man above the meaner passions with which our nature is so frequently and so unhappily exercised. But, strange to say, long as he dwelt with us at Roxobel, we never knew his parentage, nor whence he came, nor his reasons for remaining with us. It is more than twentyfive years since he first appeared in our beautiful village, and, as he was a total stranger when he took up his abode there,

no one, at that time, thought himself entitled to ask any questions respecting his former life: for, though he did not pretend to any mystery, yet, as he was never known, excepting in a very few instances, to make any allusions to his past experience, it became a point of delicacy among some of us, and a feeling of superstitious dread among others, (for we are mighty lovers of the marvellous at Roxobel, as will be hereafter seen,) never to put any questions to him relative to these matters. We were not, however, without our curiosity, neither did we spare our conjectures; but, as he was often seen to write, and as these writings were known to be committed to a safe repository in his chamber, we had no doubt but that, through their means, the mystery would some time or other be developed. But when we came to examine these manuscripts, soon after the death of the beloved writer, we found much that interested us, indeed, but nothing which had the slightest reference to the family history of our departed friend. Neither was any thing of this nature betrayed by his will.

All his property, which was very large, had been invested in the funds under the name by which he went with us: and as he had been the most generous of men while living, he gladdened many honest hearts by the manner in which he bequeathed an almost princely fortune, after his death, to his friends in Roxobel.

The name which was written on his trunks, when he first arrived at Roxobel, and that by which the few letters he received were directed, was Henry Airley; and he, of course, always went with us by that appellation. Yet we were led to doubt whether this was his real name, from his having once been observed, when signing a paper in haste, to have written another, which he instantly defaced, not without some signs of perturbation.

But what signifies a name, though many have sold their souls and bodies for a name? Names are but empty sounds, and are often as ill bestowed as ill deserved.

But to enlarge no further on this subject. Henry Airley was the name by which this our departed friend was ever

designated at Roxobel; and, sometimes, we (that is, all those among us who could be supposed to understand the allusion) were accustomed to call him Ariel, a name that he merited more than any corporeal being who had ever fallen under our notice, from the remarkable vivaci of his manner, his extreme activity, the graceful airiness of his deportment, and the purity, sportiveness, and elegance, of his conversation; added to the custom he had of being every where, and knowing every thing, so that it was impossible to say, when and where, through all the lovely and various regions of Roxobel, one might be assured that our Ariel was not at hand. He often used to

remind me of the song

"Where the bee sucks, there am I,
In the cowslip's bell I lie," &c.

I have hinted before, that he would not have required many ells to make him a He was, in fact, the smallest man I ever saw; being almost a dwarf: yet he was perfectly formed, and, though he

coat.

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