"I blame not those, who, with what care they can, COWPER. ND now I've done with you," said Harold St. Just, addressing his Thucydides, and joyously flinging it on the sofa with force enough "And a precious tough book years I've been at you, and even to split its back. you are; ten now can't construe off a page." “ "Bravo!" cried young Vernon, as he ran breathless into the room, and grasped his friend's B hand. "I wish you joy with all my heart, Harry. Won't we have a merry-making at Arthur Stirling's to-night? I suppose you are off to-morrow." "I should think so, Clarence: by the first 'Up' train; then a week in Town; then steam it to Aberdeen. 'G. Dyneley, Peter Pluckley, J. Grisley, Augustus Donnithorpe, Examinatores in literis humanioribus,"" he continued, reading aloud four illegible autographs subscribed to a slip of printed paper, which he held in his hand; "Were you in the schools when I was 'on?"" "Of course I was, my dear boy; and more anxious for you than you appeared to be for yourself. I never saw a fellow get through better." "Without joking," replied Harold gravely, "what did you think of it? Did I make a great fool of myself?" "I really mean what I say, Harry; I think you behaved admirably: but I believe you have to thank your favourite English cribs for it. I was so glad I sat up last night with you to finish that Tacitus. How fortunate that you were taken into the very passage which I read over to you so often!" "The Dons may say what they like against cramming with cribs, Clarence. I only know this, that they save a man half his drudgery, and give him quite correct enough a notion of the original. What more do we want in a parcel of dead languages? But I must run and tell Littlejohn my good news. We meet at Stirling's at nine." So saying, and tumbling like a young cataract down the stone stairs, which led to the quadrangle below, Harold hastened to communicate to his tutor the intelligence of the successful finale. of his University career. The room, into which we have somewhat abruptly introduced the reader, formed part of the frontage of the oldest College of the first University in the world; and immediately overlooked the noblest street in England, just where it meanders in its broadest and handsomest curve, through the venerable towers which surround it. We have now to transport him to an adjacent story in the same pile of buildings, where, about six hours later, were seated round a table groaning with the choicest fruits and viands, and sparkling with the raciest wines, which garden, kitchen, or cellar could produce, a party of some fifteen or sixteen young men, whom the hospitality of Arthur Stirling had collected to celebrate the Academical success, and approaching departure, of their favourite fellow collegian. Hilarity had evidently been the order of the evening; and many a pile of emptied dishes testified to the justice which had been done to the liberality of their host. The cloth had been removed; the feast was on the wane, and had reached that point at which song and wine begin to circulate most freely; when a simultaneous rumbling of fists and knuckles, both above and beneath the table, announced that the attention of the company was entreated for some oratorical effort. "Gentlemen," said the master of the feast, rising as he spoke, "you know I am a poor hand at making a speech, and will therefore not expect me to say much upon the subject for which I am on my legs; but I can truly say that I feel from my heart the sentiments I cannot express to you. And I am sure I may take it upon myself to say for you sentiments of us all. you a toast which we that they are the common Gentlemen, I propose to shall all drink with heart felt pleasure; it is, Health, Long Life, and Happiness to Harold St. Just."" At the instant twenty glasses blushed with claret to the brim-at the instant twenty loud kind voices spoke the joy with which that toast was welcomed. "Health, Long Life, and Happiness,' Harry," cried Walter Grant, reiterating the words of his leader, and foremost in delivering himself of the charge. "Your health, St. Just," followed Sir George Finch. "And I'll bet a five-pound note to a shilling the old Dons give you a 'First.'" |