See a stripling alighting from the Cambridge “Fly” at Crisford’s Hotel, Trumpington-street.  It is a day or two before the commencement of the October term, and a small cluster of gownsmen are gathered round to make their several recognitions of returning friends, in spite of shawls, cloaks, petershams, patent gambroons, and wrap-rascals, in which they are enveloped; while our fresh-comer’s attention is divided between their sable “curtains” and solicitude for his bags and portmanteau.  If his pale cheek and lack-lustre eye could speak but for a moment, like Balaam’s ass, what painful truths would they discover! what weary watchings over the midnight taper would they describe!  If those fingers, which are now as white as windsor soap can make them, could complain of their wrongs, what contaminations with dusty Ainsworth and Scapulas would they enumerate! if his brain were to reveal its labours, what labyrinths of prose and verse, in which it has been bewildered when it had no clue of a friendly translation, or Clavis to conduct it through the wanderings, would it disclose! what permutations and combinations of commas, what elisions and additions of letters, what copious annotations on a word, an accent, or a stop, parallelizing a passage of Plato with one of Anacreon, one of Xenophon with one of Lycophron, or referring the juvenile reader to a manuscript in the Vatican,—­what inexplicable explanations would it anathematize!

The youth calls on a friend, and if “gay” is inveigled into a “wet night,” and rolls back to the hotel at two in the morning Bacchi plenus, whereas the “steady man” regales himself with sober Bohea, talks of Newton and Simeon, resolves to read mathematics with Burkitt, go to chapel fourteen times a week, and never miss Trinity Church[1] on Thursday evenings.  The next day he asks the porter of his college where the tutor lives; the key-bearing Peter laughs in his face, and tells him where he keeps; he reaches the tutor’s rooms, finds the door sported, and knocks till his knuckles bleed.  He talks of Newton to his tutor, and his tutor thinks him a fool.  He sallies forth from Law’s (the tailor’s) for the first time in the academical toga and trencher, marches most majestically across the grass-plot in the quadrangle of his college, is summoned before the master, who had caught sight of him from the lodge-windows, and reprimanded.  His gown is a spick-and-span new one, of orthodox length, and without a single rent; he caps every Master of Arts he meets; besides a few Bachelors, and gets into the gutter to give them the wall.  He comes into chapel in his surplice, and sees it is not surplice-morning, runs back to his rooms for his gown, and on his return finds the second lesson over.  He has a tremendous larum at his bed’s head, and turns out every day at five o’clock in imitation of Paley.  He is in the lecture-room the very moment the clock has struck eight, and takes down every word the tutor