gown!--what a cameo, the size of a muffin! There were thirty-six young
men of the University in love at one time with Emily Blades: and no
words are sufficient to describe the pity, the sorrow, the deep,
deep commiseration--the rage, fury, and uncharitableness, in other
words--with which the Miss Trumps (daughter of Trumps, the Professor
of Phlebotomy) regarded her, because she DIDN'T squint, and because she
WASN'T marked with the small-pox.

As for the young University Snobs, I am getting too old, now, to speak
of such very familiarly. My recollections of them lie in the far, far
past--almost as far back as Pelham's time.

We THEN used to consider Snobs raw-looking lads, who never missed
chapel; who wore highlows and no straps; who walked two hours on the
Trumpington road every day of their lives; who carried off the college
scholarships, and who overrated themselves in hall. We were premature in
pronouncing our verdict of youthful Snobbishness The man without straps
fulfilled his destiny and duty. He eased his old governor, the curate
in Westmoreland, or helped his sisters to set up the Ladies' School. He
wrote a 'Dictionary,' or a 'Treatise on Conic Sections,' as his nature
and genius prompted. He got a fellowship: and then took to himself a
wife, and a living. He presides over a parish now, and thinks it rather
a dashing thing to belong to the 'Oxford and Cambridge Club;' and his
parishioners love him, and snore under his sermons. No, no, HE is not a
Snob. It is not straps that make the gentleman, or highlows that unmake
him, be they ever so thick. My son, it is you who are the Snob if you
lightly despise a man for doing his duty, and refuse to shake an honest
man's hand because it wears a Berlin glove.

We then used to consider it not the least vulgar for a parcel of lads