they looked down on the wan hands lying so listless across their knees?  Would they not have given their First, and their fellowship in embryo to boot, to have had the morning appetite of Tom Chauntrell, the horse-breaker, after twelve pipes overnight, with gin and water to match, or to have been able, like Joe Springett, the under keeper, to breast the steepest brae in Cumberland with never a sob or a painful breath?  Did they never murmur while thinking how brightly the blade might have flashed, how deftly have been wielded, if the worthless scabbard had only lasted out till, on some grand field-day, the word was given, “Draw swords?” Some felt this, doubtless; but the most part, I imagine, were possessed with a comfortable assurance that their short life had been useful, if not ornamental; and so, to a certain extent, they had their reward.  At any rate, their ending was to the full as glorious as that of some other friends of ours, who crawl away from the battle-ground of the Viveurs to die, or to linger on helpless hypochondriacs.

If I have spoken depreciatingly or unfairly of the mass of my college coevals (and it may well be so), I do full justice, in thought at least, to some brilliant exceptions.  I founded friendships there which, I trust, will outlive me.

I do not forget Warrenne, too good for the men he lived with, a David in our camp of Kedar—­always going on straight in the path he thought right—­though ever and anon his hot Irish blood would chafe fiercely under the curb self-imposed—­and laboring incessantly, with all gentleness, to induce others to follow; a Launcelot in his devotion to womankind; a Galahad in purity of thought and purpose.  I have never known a man of the world so single-hearted, or a saint with so much savoir vivre.

I see before me now Lovell, with his frank look and cheery laugh, the model of a stalwart English squirehood; and Petre, equal to either fortune; in reverse or success calm and impassible as Athos the mousquetaire; regarding money simply as a circulating medium, with the profoundest contempt for its actual value—­se ruinant en prince.  He edified us greatly, on one occasion, by meeting his justly offended father with a stern politeness, declining to hold any communication with him by word or letter till he (the sire) “could express himself in a more Christian spirit.”

Then there was Barlowe, the pearl of gentlemen riders, the very apple of Charles Symond’s eye; unspoiled by a hundred triumphs, and never degenerating into the professional, though I believe his idea of earthly felicity was,

A match for L50, 10 st. 7 lb. each.  Owners up.  Over 4 miles of a fair hunting country.

I see him, too, with his pleasant face, round, rosy, and beardless as a child-cherub of Rubens, tempting pale men with splitting heads to throw boots at him in the bitterness of their envy as he entered their rooms on the morning after a heavy drink, his eyes so clear and guileless that you would never guess how sharp they could be at times when a dangerous horse was coming up on his quarter.  A strange compound his character was of cool calculation and sentimental simplicity.  The most astute of trainers never got the better of him in making a match; and I am sure, to this day, he believes in ——­’s poetry, and in the immutability of feminine affection.