He never misses St. Mary's (the University Church) on Sundays, is on his
legs directly the psalmody begins, and is laughed at by the other gownsmen.
He reads twelve or thirteen hours a day, and talks of being a wrangler. He
is never on the wrong side of the gates after ten, and his buttery bills
are not wound up with a single penny of fines. He leaves the rooms of a
friend in college, rather late perhaps, and after ascending an
Atlas-height of stairs, and hugging himself with the anticipation of
crawling instanter luxuriously to bed, finds his door broken down, his
books in the coal-scuttle and grate, his papers covered with more curves
than Newton or Descartes could determine, his bed in the middle of the
room, and his surplice on whose original purity he had so prided himself,
drenched with ink. If he is matriculated he laughs at the _beasts_ (those
who are not matriculated), and mangles slang: _wranglers, fops, and
medalists become_ quite "household words" to him. He walks to Trumpington
every day before _hall_ to get an appetite for dinner, and never misses
grace. He speaks reverently of masters and tutors, and does not curse even
the proctors; he is merciful to his wine-bin, which is chiefly saw-dust,
pays his bills, and owes nobody a guinea--he is a Freshman!--_Monthly
Magazine._


[1] Mr. Simeon's. None of our well-beloved renders, we presume,
are so fresh as not to know this gentleman's name.

[2] One of the sage and momentous injunctions of this pastoral charge.

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