the group has at length but just now been
scattered, of which the Original of that
Portrait was so long the central figure, the
group so well-known and so familiar!
Béranger, the white-haired and bald-headed—
his old coat and slippers clustered about by
Fays and Cupids—swallows circling cheerily
at his open lattice—a cup of wine in his hand
and a song upon his lips—the wine and the
song both tributes to the love and beauty
of Lisette.

A VOICE FROM THE CLOISTER.

I AM a Fellow of no mean college in an
university that yields to none. It is possible
that my little work upon the Greek particles
may not be altogether unknown to the
classical public. I have done, perhaps,
something in relation to the text of the Choephoræ
which the world will not willingly let die.
I may or may not be the humble instrument
through which the editions of a certain
German, who has been for some time
exercising a malign influence in this country,
have suffered a blow—in their choral parts
especially—from which they will not recover.
Let that pass. All that I wish to make
clear, is, that I am not altogether a nobody,
and that I have a right to be heard.

Was it ever before contemplated—in any
country, however barbarous, under any
government, however despotic—to pass a law
whereby the wives of many innocent persons
should be suddenly divorced, their children
forcibly carried away, their homes and
hearths made desolate, and the whole tenor
of their lives put violently out of tune? It
is surely without precedent that many
hundreds of gentlemen, scholars, divines, who
had looked forward unsuspectingly to a
domestic life from their earliest manhood,
should be all at once rendered celibate, and
compelled to live in rooms without bells!
And yet such a proposal as this, or rather,
one precisely the reverse of this (which, of
course, does not affect the injustice of the
case supposed) is even now about to be
brought forward for the consideration of a
British legislature. I say, it is actually in
contemplation that our universities shall
not only be, what they at present claim to
be, the mighty training-grounds of British
youth, but shall also become enormous
nurseries for British babies! A petition
having for its object the removal of our
celibate restriction, numerously signed by
Fellows of colleges, and countersigned (as I
believe) by their respective beloved objects,
is at this moment in the hands of the
University Commission!

These engaged young men—so intoxicated
with love, so blinded with passion—are
unaware (or, if aware, are prepared to run
any risk) of the awful change which they
must experience if they succeed in this.
Still less do they consider (with such selfishness
has this sentiment already inspired
them) the case of scores of associates like
myself, who, being far too old or too wise for
matrimony, will yet be exposed by this
abominable scheme to all the discomforts of
an hymeneal career. It is in vain for them
to attempt to dazzle our eyes with the idea
that this privilege (? sic prospectus) of
marriage will only be extended to non-residents
at the university. I happen to know that
a proposition the direct contrary of this is
already cherished, and that the entire
elimination of bachelors from our collegiate system
is the malicious hope of hundreds.

I am myself an old man, having taken my
degree years before some of these enthusiastic
boys were out of longclothes, and I shall
probably never live to be turned out of my
dear old rooms in order that they may be
fitted up as nurseries: to see little gates put
up at the doors, little holes punched in the
chairs, little bars set across the windows, and
little rocking-horses cutting up the carpets
in all directions. But I speak for posterity
against the introduction of babies while there
is yet time. Once grant the right of matrimony,
and there is no limit to the inconveniences
that may follow.

I used to have confidence in Blank, the
man who keeps the rooms above mine; a
steady fellow, although not nearly of my
standing, and who has held an official station
in the college for several years. Six months
ago he took to pacing his apartment to and
fro for hours together, and one always had
to speak to him twice before he answered.
I positively caught him, upon one occasion,
reading my last notes upon Wellauer's
Eumenides, with the book turned upside
down—which, however, although the thing
was quite unaccountable, did not raise my
suspicions. Now, the murder's out. Blank
put his name down to the petition last
Wednesday, and is evidently noosed. This
parading of his room all night will be a good
deal worse for me when he comes to have a
sleepless child in his paternal arms. I should
not wonder if, as an old friend of poor B.'s,
he made me a godfather; and then I shall
have to kiss a baby,—perhaps a couple of
them. I foresee as many fatal troubles as
Cassandra herself, and only trust that I may
be listened to before they actually arrive.
My bedmaker will be continually in hot
water about things that are missing—for the
good old soul can't be expected to give over
all her little privileges at once—and there
will be a tumult upon the stairs all day.
Mrs. Blank will be sending down her
compliments, whenever I am making myself
particularly comfortable, and be sorry to say
that the smell of tobacco affects her very
seriously, and would I mind smoking out of
doors. All my pupils will be making love to
the pretty nursemaids,—for all nursemaids
are pretty, although some are not so pretty
as others. The most convivial party will