160

HOUSEHOLD WORDS.

[Conducted by

He has furnished his rooms; he has got to-
gether his crockery and his glass. He has
spent all the money which he brought with
him for his outfit, (with the exception of a few
pounds which he reserves to meet the current
expenses of the Term,) and still fresh wants
are continually springing up. He could not
have imagined that so many things were
necessary to fit up two small rooms,—coals,
candles, candlesticks, brushes of every size
and make, for the insatiable bed-maker. There
are still some articles which he must abso-
lutely procure: what is he to do ? He has
faithfully promised to pay ready-money on
all occasions; yet he is disinclined to write
home so soon for a further supply. He feels
that his ignorance may have led him to pay
too high a price for his tables and chairs, or
to purchase some articles, (a sofa and arm-
chair, for instance, pressed upon him by the
winning ways of the upholsterer,) which were
not absolutely needed; the money ought, no
doubt, to have gone further. A thought
strikes him. He knows that bills can be sent
in "through the tutor." They will be sent
home at the end of Term, and paid by his
father, together with the College expenses.
This is not running into debt. He sallies
forth, and finds a shop of the kind that he
requires. The necessary articles are selected;
he requests the tradesman to send in the bill
for them to the College Tutor. The trades-
man hesitates. " Why, is it not done every
day ? " The tradesman hesitates still further.
"Where is the objection? " " Well, the arti-
cles are not of any very great value,—perhaps
the gentleman will pay for them next Term."
"Yes; but why not send in the bill to the
Tutor?" The tradesman looks cautiously
round the shop. The fact is—he would not
wish it to go any further—but if the bill is
sent in to the College Tutor, he shall not, per-
haps, get his money for a couple of years.
For such a trifling article it is not worth his
while. He would rather trust to the young
gentleman,—he would indeed. He may be
stepping that way next Term, and then be
able to pay for them. Perhaps he may be
wanting something else, too, before that time.
The articles shall be sent to his rooms forth-
with.

There is no resisting this argument. As
for the articles themselves, they may be of the
most trifling value,—a pair of brass candle-
sticks, a basin and jug, an eight-day clock;
but the principle is the same, and, whatever
they be, our young friend leaves the shop, for
the first time in his life, IN DEBT.

The scene changes. He has been up a Term
or two by this time, and has acquired a little
experience. He has a few debts, but still they
mount up to a trifling sum only. He has
found out that his College does very little for
him, and his private tutor (whom he pays out
of his own pocket) everything. The two
rudimentary lectures which he was at first
forced to attend, are now pressed less earnestly

upon his notice. In fact, he can almost
entirely " cut " them, if he likes, and does cut
them accordingly, as a waste of time. His
College, possibly, has only two tutors, both
mathematicians; so that one of them is forced
to lecture upon classical subjects. The mis-
takes which this lecturer makes would dis-
grace a boy in the third form of a gram-
mar school. It is to his private tutors, or
"coaches," that he looks for instruction. They
are costing his poor father a heavy sum; and
as he turns to his trigonometry with a sigh,
he thinks that he might just as profitably be
reading at New York or Ispahan, and coming
up at the end of three years to take his
degree. The fire is burning low in the grate.
How he wishes that he had his sisters by him
now. Dear, dear, how lonely it feels!

Suddenly, through an opening door, con-
vivial sounds burst upon his ear. They come
from the opposite rooms—the rooms of Smith,
the good-humoured man, whom he meets
sometimes and speaks to, on the staircase.
It is his turn to entertain his Boat Club with
a supper, and he is doing so right merrily.
Presently Smith himself dashes in, his hair
standing up on end, his utterance thick, his
face more good-humoured than ever. Has he
got a saucepan ? For the love of Heaven, has
he got a saucepan? It is a new discovery, a
culinary era, an epoch in the annals of drinks!
They are about to concoct something wonder-
ful with whisky, and eggs, and beer, if they
could only find a saucepan. Heaven be
praised, here is one! A thousand thanks!
But won't he step in and join them ? Supper
is quite over. He must be lonely there. Well,
it is lonely, and he thinks there would be no
harm in joining them, for half an hour or so,
just to see what it is like.

For a moment or two he can only hear dis-
cordant noises; he sees nothing. Twenty
London fogs are rolled into one before him.
His eyes begin to water, and his head to ache.
Presently, as the mist dispels, he beholds a
large party of youths seated in ungraceful
attitudes round a table, cigars in their mouths,
oaths on their lips, glasses of steaming liquid
before them. He is introduced and made
welcome. Let me see, wasn't he from Guttle-
borough School? It was by a Guttleborough
man that the Club was founded. No ? Ah,
then, it must be some one else very like him.
Would he not wish to be a member of the
Club ? He is confused, and scarcely knows
what to say. Ah, well, he shall be proposed.
He is accommodated with a jorum of milk-
punch, and is induced to make his first attempt
at a cigar. The mirth grows more furious;
everything provokes roars of laughter. To
stick a pin into a neighbour's leg is considered
very droll. To tumble off a chair, establishes
at once a character for facetiousness. He
feels no longer lonely, but indulges in more
punch. Emboldened by its effects, he repeats
a bad pun which he remembers to have met
with in the speech of some great statesman;