and are necessary to each other, none the
less.

Here is the Right Hon. Sporule Fungus,
who has not long come up to St. Tommasio.
His tutor toadies him; he is a hero to his
private " coach " and to his whole round of
University acquaintance; including
Flashington, whose fag he has been at a public
school. What does the town say to this
grandee in the gown ? Ask Bruin, the
tobacconist, in St. Tommasio Lane. " For my
part, sir," he will tell you, " I asked him to
take champagne one evening, and gave myself
some trouble to get a lord to meet him, and
two gentlemen-commoners. His noble father
could not have laid before the distinguished
youth a better dessert than I provided." Will
Bruin charge the champagne as cigars, and
call his desserts Latakia, when after a long
interval he shall send in to Fungus his
small account? Why does Bruin always call
a large account a small one, and leave it so
long in his books as a matter of no
consequence ?—and why is it that when " he has a
large bill to make up " he afflicts with his
desire for money those who are not rich, and
who owe him but trifling sums? He would
not send a bill in to Fungus, even if the
Right Honourable young man were to request
him so to do.

Before the young Marquis of Ballyseedy,
tailors, tobacconists, and cooks once lay
prostrate. Would he condescend to bless them
with his patronage ? He would; he did. But
never did he bless them with a sixpence. It
having suddenly occurred to him that he could
smash the Apollo Belvedere in the middle of
"quad," he thought he would, and he did. His
absence from the college was requested; and
when he went he left no keepsakes behind
him for the tradesmen written upon chequebook
leaves.

But Town and Gown are more in one
another's eyes than debtor and creditor.
Don't let us be sordid in our view of things.
Town loves Gown for itself; Corydon is not a
mercenary lover, though, to be sure, if Chloe
has a little property, so much the better. A
quiet man in fast society drops his lexicon
to look to the St. Leger, and gives up his
Paley for pale ale; a quiet town in gown
society, desires to put upon its mind, if it
may not wear upon its body, the familiar
habit.

When Files, the builder, was to be seen
patiently restoring the stone steps which had
been undermined and re-constructed, as a
trophy, by the wits of Deeptide Square, St.
Tommasio, all said he was a steady, worthy
man, and rejoiced that he had stored two
thousand pounds, at which he could draw
with the full strength of a capitalist. But
Files was an infected man. He got his son
into a gown; and William Files, Junior, Esq.,
with six light-coloured hairs growing from a
wart on one cheek, to represent his whiskers,
was to be seen following the " drag " upon a
thorough-bred, galloping at full speed
through a large portion of his father's money.
The son of old Phaeton, the watchmaker, lost
his balance at a Dangerfield Ball, and from
that time went so disgracefully wrong that
his works brought shame upon the house he
came from.

A fine opening occurs to the son of a
respectable townsman, a plump, cheerful,
singing-faced boy—he gets a chorister's place.
He is sought for his music; he is plunged
into University society and University sherry.
Honour comes to the father from his child's
visits to " Sir Dickinson Cloudsley's rooms."
The boy's mind is expanded to life; that is to
say, Bell's Life. The child's voice breaks;
the singing ceases, the good society is at an
end. The chorister, however, has by this
time donned a gown and trencher, having
picked up a Bible clerkship, or taken the
odious title of a servitor; he gets from his
old cronies stately nods, or rare and formal
invitations to breakfast. Then he forms a
new set of his own, chiefly among freshmen,
who soon learn to live at twice the rate of
their allowances, perfectly forgetful of what
mother, or what sister, may tenderly be parting
with her little luxuries, that there may be no
want felt by the boy, or brother, who has
gone "where he has so fine a field for the
exercise of his superior abilities."

Other relations yet subsist between the
Corydon and Chloe of the Town and Gown.
Rose Dapper, the tailor's daughter, looks out
of window for the coming of the gentleman
commoner; her Bertram Nightingale, who
talked to her about his troth, and whose five
times renewed and six times dishonoured
bill her father keeps locked up quiet in
his cash-box, at the intercession of this
Rose. The Nightingale don't love the Rose.
The Morning Toilet has this week announced
the marriage of the Nightingale with the
Honourable Lady Thorn, the accomplished
daughter of the Earl of Blackberry, as being
on the tapis. Rose Dapper ought not to be
sitting at her window so forlorn. The Town
ought never to have listened in such matters
to the Gown.

Mary Smith, the surgeon's pretty daughter,
has had six Gowns fluttering upon her breath,
and would have beatified with a smile any
one "man" out of a group of twenty, who
sighed over her in twenty rooms. She
beatified none of them; like a wise girl she
waited for young Vellum, the attorney, and
young Vellum duly came, and she is Mrs.
Vellum, an extremely comfortable matron.
The damsel at the glove-shop, who flirts, and
sells to " the men " odd purses and babies'
socks, knows what she is about—she is not
under a delusion; she has accepted the white
hand of a waiter at the Comet. There are,
however, worse relations between Town and
Gown. Fatal as red coats, are the gowns
to servant maids—called, technically,
"slayvies." Beyond the town its influence extends.