Charles Dickens.]

THE FRESHMAN'S PROGRESS.

161

it is received with frantic applause. But,
silence! silence for a song!

A gentleman with a husky voice carols forth
a ditty. It has no wit in it, and very few
rhymes, but treats on a subject in which all
feel an interest. An individual with an un-
euphonious name—Huggins, or Noggins, or
Buggins,—"went up to London one day,
fol de rol, diddle dol, diddle dol dee; And
met with a beautiful actress, de diddle de
day.

But the youth hears no more! Cigars,
smoke, broken glasses, bent caps, tattered
gowns, pale faces, all fade from his view.
He sinks from his chair insensible; and, to
the delight of the spectators, in a most con-
venient and corkable position. His face is
corked accordingly; and an hour afterwards
he snores heavily upon his bed, with the
effigy of a gallows on his forehead, and a
beard and mustache that a German patriot
might envy.

But, Oh, the morning! He has never felt
so before. How he curses his folly and
wickedness! What is he to do? Smith,
who drops in at about two o'clock, says,
"Drink pale ale! " He drinks it, and feels
somewhat refreshed. " Never mind," says
Smith, " one good thing has come of your last
night's pardonable weakness. A meeting
has been held this morning, and you are
elected a member of the HERO AND LEANDER
CLUB."

Long vacation has commenced. He has
pulled in a good many matches by this time;
and won " pewters," and drunk out of the
pewters which he has won. He has added a
little to his debts, too. Five months at the
Vicarage becomes rather a dreary prospect.
What should he be doing with himself all
that time? Besides, he really must be read-
ing. At least, so he says in his letter to his
father, who consents, upon the recommenda-
tion of his College Tutor, that he should form
one of the reading-party who are going with
Mr. Orbilius to the beautiful town of Pluck-
ville.

What a neighbourhood is that of Pluckville!
What a lovely lake to row upon! What an
admirable and convivial cricket-club attached
to the town! What splendid fishing! What
enchanting rides and drives! What slap-up
shooting to look forward to, as the month of
September comes on! No wonder it is a
favourite resort of reading-parties. There
are one or two other parties in the vicinity
now, besides that of Mr. Orbilius. All the
young men lodge in the town. They frater-
nise. There is an ordinary for those who
choose to join, at half-past six punctual, at
the Medusa's Head. There is not, perhaps,
very much reading going on of a morning;
but Mr. Orbilius does not fall ill on that
account. He is a philosopher, and knows
how to put up with these kind of things.

If this little paper could be enlarged into a
transcendant work of fiction destined to live

in every age and clime, this might be fixed
upon by the critics as the identical place
where the hero should fall in love. A beauti-
ful heiress takes a fancy to him and admits
him to her château. This brings him into
collision with a haughty duke. They fight,
and so on.

For my part, I should prefer him to fall in
love with one of the doctor's pretty nieces,
who are good amiable girls, or even with the
attorney's black-eyed daughter. Such an
aifair of the heart would bring him into
immediate collision, not with a duke, but
with some of the ideas which have of late
taken possession of his mind. It would sober
and steady him. His companions—except
the utterly profligate, would respect the
scruples of a man who grew more particular
in his conduct, on the plea that he was en-
gaged. However, to tell the truth, love did
not intrude upon the picture that I was
drawing out for myself; except the maternal
love—deep, unspeakable—which encircled
and overshadowed the boy, when at the close
of the vacation I thought I saw him return,
not much improved in any respect by his
READING PARTY.

Perhaps all this is tedious. Well, life
itself is tedious. We cannot all of us be earls
and princes, carry off our lady-loves on milk-
white palfreys, or be stabbed in midnight
encounters. Most of us will live on in this
dull tedious kind of way, without any extra-
ordinary piece of good luck turning up at the
end of the third volume. Here he is, after
another Term or two, in chapel. It is a cold
winter morning as he sits on the hard oak
benches of the College chapel. He remembers
when Divine Service called up feelings of
devotion in his youthful mind. The organ,
as it sounded, thrilled through his frame.
He now thinks upon going to chapel as he
would think about going to the dentist's. He
has been deluged and drenched with chapel.
He is even now sitting there, as a punish-
ment! " As you have failed to make up your
number of chapels the two last weeks," such
are the very words of the Dean, " you will, if
you please, keep every chapel till the end of
Term." How can he reverence that which he
is taught to look upon as a penalty attached
to a crime? " All they appear to require of
you here," he thinks disconsolately to himself,
"is to eat dinners, and to go to chapel.
Lectures are, comparatively, of no importance.
Can this be called an University edu—?" But
the service is at an end. The pompous, red-
faced Master stalks out, bowing to the two
young noblemen undergraduates who walk
beside him. Then follow the other dignitaries.
And last of all the vulgar herd of students,
many with their great coats buttoned up
over their night-gowns, and their hair un-
brushed, having been called forth by the
ring of the bell, to come and sleep on the
chapel benches, instead of continuing to sleep
in bed.