"The sweetest far in life, But as thou'rt beginning to nod, reader, I wish thee pleasant dreams and un bon repos. Winter and summer to matins we are summoned at seven in the morning, and unless we arrive in time for the Markers to get a glimpse at, and run their pins* through us, we may as well be hugging the pillow. In my noviciate we had but two Markers, and one of them, whose Christian name was Anthony (surname he never had I believe, his mother residing in the Rookery at Barnwell; and his partiality for the gownsmen, clearly evincing an alliance by blood thereunto), used to see many a one there, who, knowing he had a friend in Mark Anthony, was loud snoring at home. These oblations at the shrine of Morpheus, were gratefully received by that deity, who, in return, used to load the devotee with the rich gifts of Plutus and Bacchus. It was a common practice with some of these sluggards whom I could name, to make the boy "Bacchi plenus." Three or four Markers, with lists of the names in their hands, walk up and down chapel during a considerable part of the service, running a pin through the names of those present. Although I never had recourse myself to such evasions, so irksome and borish did I ever find this early rising, spite of the health it promised, that I was constantly in the black-book of the Dean, its presiding Deity- one week being "put out of Sizings and Commons," another getting an "Imposition," in the shape of having to get by heart a satire of Juvenal, a book of Homer, to give an analysis of Butler's Analogy, to write a declamation criminating myself (by the way, this is not constitutional), and, in short, to do so many disagreeables, that the very recollection of them makes my pen drop. "There is no compulsion" in this Chapel-going, "only you must "—or abide the above consequences. Times many, on surplice mornings, my duty to his deanship has been so somnolent that, having slumbered to the last tingle of the bell, sans inexpressibles, sans almost every thing, I have whipped on the full-flowing surplice, and just saved my bacon. Were I to turn reformer, I should propose making a muster-room (on ordinary week days, the avowed use of chapel is to see that all men are in college), not of a place consecrated to religion, but should assemble them, at a reasonable hour of the day, in the Lecture-room, or Hall. If this measure were adopted, the chapel then being kept holy, in being used but for solemn occasions, such as Sundays and Surplice-days, it is more than probable, that, instead of prayers being conducted as they now are, there would be somewhat more of reverence and devotion in them. As things now go, there is not one man who goes to pray-not even amongst the saints or Simeonites.* In the morning they muster, with all the reluctance of a man going to be hanged; and in the evening, although now awake, and enlivened with the convivialities of the bottle, there is much the same feeling. They contrive, however, when once assembled, not only to lose sight of the ostensible object for which they are called together, but also of the disagreeable necessity of thus congregating. Tabletalk is much more abundant here than "at table"there being no other occupation, and the wine having by this time sufficiently (in many cases overmuch) warmed the imagination, it also smells more of the champagne. So effervescent is it, indeed, that the Dean, with all his eyes about him, cannot keep Every body knows that at Trinity Church, Cambridge, there has been, evangelizing the gownsmen for the last half century, a great saint called Simeon. the cork in. Out it sparkles, spite of him, in sallies like these: Enter two Reading-Freshmen. W. and M., of the same standing (men of the same year sit toge. ther, the Freshmen together, Junior Sophs, Senior Sophs, Scholars, Bachelors of Arts and M. A., &c.). W. [Speaks in a low whisper]. How did you like Brown's lecture? M. O tol lol. I thought he proved that a to the power of nothing equals one, very prettily. W. By the bye, Pope showed me to-day how to prove two equal to one. M. The devil he did: as how, pray? W. [Pencils it in the Prayer-book whilst kneeling]. Thus, look Because 2-x=x.(x-x), & also =(x+x)(x-x) M. Well, that's odd. W. Yes, its odd enough that odd should be even, and singular enough that singular should be plural. I've done with grammar after this. M. Ha, ha, ha, "thank you, good sir, I owe you one." W. If you owe me any, you owe me two. But "be quiet, I know it," Newby 's coming with his long-pole. M. That's the first time I've heard of his long-head, ha, ha. W. Be quiet, or I'll shave your's for you-I don't relish, for my part, being "hauled over the coals" by either the Dean or his deputy-so have done with your giggling-if you please, Sir. What! at it again!" Never mind me, Sir!" Lord, you would titter at your own tail, if you only had one. M. Hoh, hoh, hoh. When up comes Newby, who, with M.'s quicklysubsiding laugh, says, "The Dean will be happy to see you this evening, Sir, immediately after chapel." Poor M., who being as risible as irascible (his sensibilities of every kind were easily put in action), was in frequent scrapes of this kind. I used to take a wicked pleasure in thus setting in motion the muscles of his very funny face, which, when once off, he could never stop, but at every quaint expression or thought, would receive a fresh impulse, until at length he fell into a hoh, hoh, hoh (into a hoho, a Johnian jogs me), and an Imposition from the Dean. |