THE COLLEGE.—A SKETCH IN VERSE.

Oft has some fair inquirer bid me say, What tasks, what sports beguile the gownsman's day; What cares are ours—by what light arts we try To teach our sober-footed hours to fly. List, then, ye belles, who, nursed in golden ease, No arts need study, but the arts to please; Who need no science, while with skill ye know To wield the weapons which your charms bestow— With grace to thread the dance's mazy throng— To strike the tuneful chords, and swell the song— To rouse man's sterner spirit to his toil, And cheer its harshness with a grateful smile. Thus my weak muse a bolder flight shall raise, Lured by the glorious hope of Beauty's praise.

Soon as the clouds divide, and dawning day Tints the quadrangle with its earliest ray, The porter, wearied with his watchings late, Half opes his eyelids and the wicket gate; And many a yawning gyp comes slipshod in, To wake his master ere the bells begin.

Round yon gray walls, enchained by slumber's spell, Each son of learning snores within his cell. For though long vigils the pale student keep, E'en learning's self, we know, must sometimes sleep— So morn shall see him, with a brightened face, Fresh as a giant, to resume his race. But hark! the chimes of yonder chapel-tower Sound the arrival of the unwelcome hour. Now drowsy Lentulus his head half rears, To mumble curses on the Dean he fears. What though his gyp exhort him, ere too late, To seek the chapel and avert his fate? Who, when secure his downy sheets between, Recks of the threatenings of an angry Dean! Slow rolling round he bids his mentor go And bear his warnings to the shades below. Soon shall he, summoned to the well-known room,[24] Repent his recklessness and learn his doom, Within the walls a dull constraint to know, And many a midnight jollity forego. Far happier he, to whom the harsh-tongued bell Sounds, as it should, his murdered slumber's knell. Cold he contemns, and, shuffling on his clothes, Boldly stalks forth, nor heeds his redd'ning nose. Straight o'er the grass-plot cuts his dewy line In mad defiance of the College fine; Breathless with hurry gains the closing grate, And thanks his stars he was not just too late. His name prick'd off upon the marker's roll, No twinge of conscience racks his easy soul, While tutor's wines and Dean's soft smiles repay His prompt submission to the College sway.

The service o'er, by Cam's dull bank of sedge He strides, while hunger gains a keener edge; (Though fasting walks I cannot loathe too much, Since such my custom, my advice be such.) For him, who straight returns, what horrors wait! How chill and comfortless his chamber's state. The crackling fuel only serves too well To show the cold it vainly strives to quell; While the grim bedmaker provokes the dust, And soot-born atoms, which his tomes encrust: Awhile suspended high in air they soar, Then, sinking, seek the shelves on which they slept before. Down bolt his commons and his scalding tea, Then off to lectures in pedantic glee. He notes each artifice and master-stroke— Each musty parallel and mustier joke; Snaps up the driblets to his share consigned, And as he cram'd his body crams his mind; Then seeks at home digestion for his lore, And slams in Folly's face the twice-barred door.

This hour, perchance, sees Lentulus descend To seek the chamber of some jovial friend— Yawn o'er the topics of the passing day, Or damn the losses of his last night's play; While well he augurs from the clattering plates, The glad intelligence that breakfast waits.

From Memory's store the sportive muse may glean The charms that gild awhile the careless scene— The song, the anecdote, the bet, the joke, The steaming viands, and the circling smoke— The racy cider-cup, or brisk champagne, Long prompt the merriment and rouse the strain; Till Pleasure, sated of the loaded board, Seeks what amusement fresher scenes afford. Some prove their skill in fence—some love to box— Some thirst for vengeance on the dastard fox; Each by his fav'rite sport's enchanting power, Cheats of its tediousness the flying hour.

Now the dull court a short siesta takes, For scarce a footstep her still echo wakes, Save where the prowling duns their victim scout, And seize the spendthrift wretch that dares steal out.

Come, let us wander to the river's bank, And learn what charm collects yon breathless rank; The hope or horror pictured in each face Marks the excitement of the coming race. Hark! o'er the waters booms the sound of strife; Now the hush'd voices leap at once to life; Now to their toil the striving oarsmen bend; Now their gay hues the flaunting banners blend; Now leap the wavedrops from the flashing oar; Now the woods echo to the madd'ning roar; Now hot th' enthusiastic crowd pursue, And scream hoarse praises on the unflinching crew; Now in one last wild chance each arm is strained; One panting struggle more—the goal is gained. A scene like this, what stream can boast beside? Scarce rival Isis on her fairer tide.[25] But think not thus could live the rower's power, Save long privation steeled him for the hour. The couch relinquished at the voice of morn, The toilsome exercise, the cup forsworn, The frugal dinner, and scarce-tasted wine— Are these no sacrifice at glory's shrine? Thus with new trophies shall his walls be graced— Each limb new strengthened, and each nerve new braced.

Some idlers to the pavements keep their feet, And strut and ogle all the passing street. And if 'tis Sunday's noon, on King's Parade,[26] See the smug tradesman too and leering maid; See the trim shop-boy cast his envious eye On Topling's waistcoat and on Sprightly's tie, Bravely resolved to hoard his labour's fruit, And ape their fancies in his next new suit.

But now the sounding clocks in haste recall Each hungry straggler to his College hall; For Alma Mater well her nursling rears, Nor cheats his gullet, while she fills his ears. Heavens! what a clatter rends the steam-fraught air— How waiters jostle, and how Freshmen stare! One thought here strikes me—and the thought is sad— The carving for the most part is but bad. See the torn turkey and the mangled goose! See the hack'd sirloin and the spattered juice! Ah! can the College well her charge fulfil, Who thus neglects the petit-maître's skill? The tutor proves each pupil on the books— Why not give equal license to the cooks? As the grave lecturer, with scrupulous care, Tries how his class picks up its learned fare— From Wisdom's banquet makes the dullard fast— Denied admittance till his trial's past— So the slow Freshman on a crust should starve, Till practice taught him nobler food to carve: Then Granta's sons a useful fame should know, And shame with skill each dinner-table beau.

High on the daïs, and more richly stored, Well has old custom placed the Fellow's board: Thus shall the student feel his fire increased By brave ambition for the well-graced feast— Mark the sleek merriment of rev'rend Dons, And learn how science well rewards her sons. But spare, my muse, to pierce the sacred gloom That veils the mysteries of the Fellows' room; Nor hint how Dons, their untasked hours to pass, Like Cato, warm their virtues with the glass.[27]

Once more, at sound of chapel chime, repairs The surpliced scholar to his vesper prayers; For discipline this tribute at his hands, First and last duty of the day, demands. Then each, as diligence or mirth invite, Careful improves or thriftless wastes the night.

Stand in the midst, and with observant eye Each chamber's tenant at his task descry. Here the harsh mandate of the Dean enthrals Some prayerless pris'ner to the College walls, Who in the novel's pages seeks to find A brief oblivion for his angry mind. Haply the smoke-wreathed meerschaum shall supply An evenness of soul which they deny. Charm! that alike can soothing pleasure bring To sage or savage, mendicant or king; Sov'reign to blunt the pangs of torturing pain, Or clear the mazes of the student's brain! Swift at thy word, amidst the soul's misrule, Content resumes her sway, and rage grows cool.

Here pores the student, till his aching sight No more can brook the glimmering taper's light; Then Slumber's links their nerveless captive bind, While Fancy's magic mocks his fevered mind; Then a dim train of years unborn sweeps by In glorious vision on his raptured eye: See Fortune's stateliest sons in homage bow, And fling vain lustre o'er his toilworn brow! Away, ye drivellers! dare ye speak to him Of cheek grown bloodless, or of eye grown dim? Who heeds the sunken cheek, or wasted frame, While Hope shouts "Onward! to undying fame."

Glance further, if thine eye can pierce the mist Raised round the votaries of Loo and Whist; Scarce such kind Venus round her offspring flung To bear him viewless through the Punic throng;[28] Scarce such floats round old Skiddaw's crown of snow, And veils its grimness from the plains below. Here, too, gay Lentulus conspicuous sits, Chief light and oracle of circling wits. Who with such careless grace the trick can take, Or fling with such untrembling hand his stake? But though with well-feigned case his glass he sips, And puffs the balmy cloud from smiling lips, Care broods within—his soul alone regards His ebbing pocket and the varying cards; While one resolve his saddened spirit fills— The diminution of his next term's bills.

Lamp after lamp expires as night grows late, And feet less frequent rattle at the gate. The wearied student now rakes out his fire— The host grows dull, and yawning guests retire— Till, all its labours and its follies o'er, The silent College sinks to sleep once more.

Thus roll the hours, thus roll the weeks away, Till terms expiring bring the long-feared day, When rake and student equal terror know— That lest he's plucked, this lest he pass too low. Though different epochs mark their wide careers, And serve for reck'ning points through fleeting years— To this a tripos or a Senate's grace, To that a fox-hunt, ball, or steeple-chase,— When three short years of toil or sloth are past, This common bugbear scares them all at last.

The doors flung wide, the boards and benches set, The nervous candidates for fame are met. See yon poor wretch, just shivering from his bed, Gnaw at his nails and scratch his empty head; With lengthened visage o'er each question pore, And ransack all his memory for its store. This Euclid argued, or this Newton taught— Thus Butler reasoned, or thus Paley thought; With many a weapon of the learned strife, Prized for an hour, then flung aside for life. Ah! what avails him now his vaunted art, To stride the steed, or guide the tandem-cart? His loved ecarté, or his gainful whist? What snobs he pommelled, or what maidens kissed? His ball-room elegance, his modish air, And easy impudence, that charmed the fair? Ah! what avails him that to Fashion's fame Admiring boudoirs echoed forth his name? All would he yield, if all could buy one look, Though but a moment's, o'er the once-scorned book. —Enough, enough, once let the scene suffice; Bid me not, Fancy, brave its horrors twice. The wrangler's glory in his well-earned fame, The prizeman's triumph, and the pluck'd man's shame, With all fair Learning's well-bestowed rewards, Are they not fitting themes for nobler bards? Poor Lentulus, twice plucked, some happy day Just shuffles through, and dubs himself B. A.; Thanks heaven, flings by his cap and gown, and shuns A place made odious by remorseless duns. Not so the wrangler,—him the Fellows' room Shall boast its ornament for years to come; Till some snug rectory to his lot may fall, Or e'en (his fondest wish) a prebend's stall: Then burst triumphant on th' admiring town The full-fledged honours of his Doctor's gown.

Yes, Granta, thus thy sacred shades among Join grave and thoughtless in one motley throng. Forgive my muse, if aught her trifling air Seems to throw scorn upon thy kindly care. Long may thy sons, with heaven-directed hand, Spread wide the glories of a grateful land— Uphold their country's and their sovereign's cause— Adorn her church, or wield her rev'rend laws; By virtue's might her senate's counsel sway, And scare red Faction powerless from his prey.

And ye, who, thriftless of your life's best days, Have sought but Pleasure in fair Learning's ways, Though nice reformers of the sophists' school Mock the old maxims of Collegiate rule, Deem them not worthless, because oft abused, Nor sneer at blessings, which yourselves refused.—U. T.