of information to the dalesmen—have
differed within the last fortnight about the
capacity of ministers, and the managment of
the war, it may be concluded that Wasteland
folk are somewhat behind public opinion.
Were I met, as I go about my duties, over the
hills, with my dog and my long crook, I might
well be taken for a literal shepherd of my
flock. It was not always thus with me.
There is an old three-cornered cap, the wonder
of the ancient dame who "does" for me,
which, broken and battered as it is, looks disdainfully
at its neighbour of black straw that
now forms my pastoral covering. Amidst
the simple clothing in my old oak wardrobe,
there hangs, tattered and torn enough, a long
blue Trinity gown; and among the homely
crockery of my cupboard, there shines resplendent,
with the college arms on one side, and a
glass at the bottom, a "pewter" that was the
reward of victory upon the silver Cam.

I had failed to get my fellowship, and spent
most of my little capital in dear—too dear—
old Cambridge, but the memory of my college
days seemed worth it all. When my
daily work was over, and my evening pipe
was lit, I loved to recline in the chimney-corner
of my sitting room, and recall the ancient
days; and the scenes of that happy time,
though they grew dimmer and dimmer with
every backward glance, shone not less glorious
through the haze. I had always a vague
longing to revisit the fading halls and "lessening
towers" once more, and, this last
May, having received an invitation, hospitable
and kind as only a college friend's can
be, it fairly overset all considerations of economy,
and down to Trinity, like an escaped
bird I flew; that being a poetical expression
for the state of my feelings, rather than the
speed of my journey, for Wasteland is over
forty miles from the railway station, across
the mountain by-roads, and I accomplished
them in a gig like Doctor Syntax's.

I came through London, and so by the
Eastern Counties' line, and as we drew near
the low flat country with "the Brobdignags"
— I used to think so high before I came to
Cumberland—I thought I recognised the
roads and walks about, and coupled each with
some remembrance of old. There was the
windmill whereat Jones' skewbald shied and
threw him; and there were the post and rails
over which Brown, in scarlet, thought to have
escaped from the sporting proctor; and there
the broad bright stream where we three
ducked the gamekeeper. I would rather it
had been the coaching days again, to have
lingered a little longer on our way, to have
driven the four grays into Trumpington, and
to have sat beside Jack Hall. Jack had the
road between the two universities, and used
to be a noted character; he artfully contrived
to sympathise now with one, and now with the
other, as his box companion happened to be
Cantab or Oxonian, but I remember one mistake
of his. Robinson of Trinity had been
staying up at Christchurch, and was taken by
Jack to be of that college; after some
conversation, tending still more to strengthen
that impression, Jack observed: "Well, sir,
I dinna' how it is, but I can allus tell a Hoxford
from, a Cambridge gent. The Hoxford
gent says, 'Hall' when he speaks to me, as
you do, sir, and asks me to take a glass of
wine here (as it may be), and another there,
and 'your health Hall,' says he, and when he
gets off, says he, 'here's half-a-crown, Hall
(at least), for you.' But your Cambridge
chap says, 'Jack, my boy, a pot o' beer?' and
'I look towards you,' and gives me a beggarly
shilling to end with." When Robinson, therefore,
got down at Trinity, he said with emphasis,
"Jack, my boy. here's a shilling for
you I'm a Cambridge man." Poor Jack is
dead now, and we came through the town in
an omnibus; through the town that is being
all rebuilt, and by way of Pembroke, Corpus,
and Cat's Hall, past the long screen of King's
College, through which the organ peals, and
close by the stately Senate House where my
heart beat high and hopefully for days, and
where at last it sank to zero; when the long
list came out, and wrangler after wrangler
was called forth, and I, the last, was called—
the Golden Spoon!

Show me thine ancient front, old Caius, I
pray, for brick thou art behind, but three
months piled, and hide thy next door neighbour's
fresh red face; the street is new too,
I dare say improved, but I would rather
have the tumbling shops and all their storeys
nodding overhead. Thank Heaven, the
grand old gate is where it was, and the old
martin builds in Harry's crown, and still
makes entry hazardous; the porter looks the
same, but not so, I; he does not know me
from a chorister, or credulous father bringing
up a son to first matriculation—for the Porson
prize and all the rest—or haply from some
dun importunate, passing his days without
the "sported" *oaks; "in the middle leaps
the fountain," shaking coolness through the
court, and the pigeons tamely trot upon the
level shaven lawns, and from the ancient
clock turret peals forth the passing hour "in
the male and female voice" as was wont to
be of old; up the stone steps past the butteries
and the great dark swinging doors, and
into Neville's Court, unchanged and fair, with
echoing cloisters upon either side, and through
its open gates the pleasant stream—; but here
is a new wonder; groups of men—so
strangely like the friends of mine own days, I
scarce can think them quite unknown to me,
with the same bright hopeful faces and the
same light grace of limb—with photographic
apparatus and the favouring sun limning each
other's features: thus may these portrait
galleries be formed of all whom it may please
them to keep fresh in memory; ah me, I