that hour in chambers. If Jones had con- | fool? Robinson, lend him a gradus, there's tinued to sit at his toys in perfect idleness a good fellow !" and perfect stillness, it would have been quite satisfactory to the prefect in course. Not so to Jones's tutor. In that case the question would have been, not "Why are you making a row?" but, "Have you done your vulgus ?" i.e., the short, theoretically epigrammatic composition of six, four, or two verses, hexameter and pentameter, according to position in the school, which every inferior was expected to produce every evening. "Yes, I have done it." And Jones returns to his painful climbing of Parnassus, with no great confidence in the "step" which has been provided for him. "Then why have you not brought it to graceful, and punished as severely in col me?" "I was just going to write it out." "Go to your toys directly; write it out and bring it to me.' About a quarter of an hour later Jones brings his fair copy of his two verses. "Three false quantities!" exclaims the tutor, after a glance at the vessel of paper; "hold out your hand!" Jones receives three stinging cuts with a cane across his palm, with the endurance of a Spartan, though they force from him a horrible grimace. "Now go and alter it! And, look here, if you don't bring it me by the end of toytime, I won't sign it. I shan't sign it to-morrow morning." Jones returns somewhat hopelessly to his work, knowing that his vulgus won't be even so much as received by the master at first school to-morrow morning without his tutor's signature, and that to be returned "absent vulgus," will entail not only in all probability a scourging, for which he cares very little indeed, but being sent down to the bottom of his class, which is worse, and most likely a further chastisement from his tutor, which is worst of all. Nay! not quite worst of all! For if this "absent vulgus " be one more step in a long course of carelessness and idleness, and if the tutor is careful and conscientious, the matter may issue in a letter from him to Jones père, or Jones mère, setting forth how all the "lickings" he had administered to his pupil had been unavailing, and how he really did not know what to do with him. Poor feckless Jones has turned from the washing-stand to return to his toys, but, appalled at the task before him, turns when half-way across the chamber, and musters up courage to say that the reason he had made so many false quantities was that his gradus had been "shirked" out of his "scob," i.e., his desk-box in school. 'Why don't you keep it locked, you 66 Shirked out of his scob! Stolen, that is, in the vulgar tongue understanded of the world outside the college walls. And the incident necessitates a few words of elucidation on a curious point of college ethics. The fraudulent or violent appropriation of the property of another was as strongly reprobated, considered as dislege as in the world beyond its gates, in every case in which the "conveyed" property might be considered as having any reference to the home life of the possessor. Thus, to lay hands unduly on a slice of ham, or of cake, or any part of the contents of a hamper from home (Wiccamicè, "cargo ") was infamous. To abstract a book that had been bought by or given to the owner for his amusement was equally so. To filch coin was, if possible, yet worse. The phrase stealing would have been applied to any of these cases as vigorously as by the world outside. But to appropriate anything either provided by the college, as a "disper" of mutton, or pudding, or of bread, butter, or cheese, or anything possessed solely for the purposes of college work, was only "shirking," and might be avenged by the person injured by a licking, if he was able to give it. But the deed involved no slightest degree of disgrace, or even of concealment, when the wrong had been consummated. It would be a mistake to suppose, as an outsider might, that the apparent intricacies of this code of morality had ever any tendency to blur the line of demarcation between shirking and stealing. Not a little junior but knew perfectly well that to purloin his schoolfellow's "Robinson Crusoe" would be to place himself on a level with the Artful Dodger. But he would "shirk " his neighbor's grammar, or Virgil, with as keen satisfaction and as clear a conscience as ever Johnny Armstrong had in driving a herd across the border. So it was that shiftless Jones's gradus had been "shirked," as it would not have been had he been tidy enough to keep his "scob " locked, instead of probably losing the key of it. And so toy-time goes on peacefully, with perhaps a replenishing of the huge fireplace with a fresh half-faggot twice or thrice, till the chapel bell rings at eight o'clock, and all betake themselves across the quad. They do not enter the chapel, | The hogsheads were arranged all round but range themselves standing round the the walls; and the needful tools for tapping walls of the ante-chapel. Presently the un- one of them, as soon as its neighbor was der-master-"hostiarius " comes down out, were at hand. from his lodging over fifth and sixth chambers, and enters, taking his place, also standing in the midst, and the prefect of chapel who is "in course (for there are two prefects of chapel), reads a short prayer. He also calls names as they go out at the end of it; the hostiarius returns to his lodge, and the boys to their chambers. "tea-messes The next hour, from eight till nine, is at the free disposition of each individual, modified only by the attendance of the juniors on the prefects. A fresh half-faggot is called for the first thing. The "mess fags" of those prefects who have prepare their masters' teathings on his washing-stand, and put a "boiler" (never called a kettle) on the bar which lies across the dogs, to make his tea. They will be rewarded by-andby by a cup for themselves, when the great man has done, if they care for it; which they probably do, mainly because it is contraband. For not only is no such refreshment provided, it is not permitted. And should the hostiarius unfortunately take it into his head to come round,i.e., to make a domiciliary visit to the chambers, and find the tea-things en évidence, he will break them all. What is provided is a huge "nipperkin" of college beer, not bad beer either, five screen bushel to the hogshead being the allowance. This has been brought into every chamber at the beginning of the evening by the bedmakers. The quantity is sure to be more than enough. For what remains next morning in the nipperkin will fall to the bedmaker's share. And if the quantity so brought were not enough, any one of the inmates of the chamber may bring, or order a junior to bring, any quantity he might think fit from the cellar to the chamber. For the cellar remains open, freely accessible to all during the supper hour, from six to seven; and the juniors bring from it whatever is wanted. For it was a somewhat singular part of the college domestic economy, that whereas the meat, the bread, the butter, the cheese, were served out in accurate compliance with the statutable quantity allowed by the bread-butler and the butter-butler, the beer was drawn ad libitum by the boys themselves. The cellar was a grand piece of Gothic architecture, ceiled by a system of ribbed vaults springing from a central pillar. The beer was, as I have said, good, as a rule. But I remember one occasion when its decidedly unsatisfactory condition led to results that must, I think, be still remembered by two or three other veterans besides myself. It so happened that somehow or other a brewing had been consumed so much sooner than had been anticipated, that fresh hogsheads were placed in the cellar absolutely before the beer was cold. The public indignation was great. And one or two college Hampdens, in protest against the outrage inficted on the community, drove the spigots into every hogshead one after the other, and flooded the cellar with beer pretty well knee-deep. The daring deed brought its punishment with it, for there was not a drop of beer to be had in college for some little time to come. I do not remember that any other penalty followed the deed; or that the masters took any notice of the matter. It did not indeed in any wise fall under their cognizance, unless the bursar, whose affair it was, had made a complaint upon the subject. The bursar at that time was Mr. Sissmore, who lived many years afterwards to become senior fellow of the college. was He was the man who insisted on trying the effect of his eloquence on the boys, who had risen in rebellion a few years before my time; and who, commencing his address with "Eloquar, an siliam? immediately answered with more propri ety of latinity than of courtesy "Sileas !" pronounced as two words. Mr. Adams, in the work I have quoted, attributes this anecdote to Bishop Huntingford, the warden, erroneously. Poor Sissmore's exordium fell farther below the dignity he intended to impart to it, from the fact that he lisped badly, and pronounced the provocative word, "thiliath." I remember that a knot of us watched for him to pass up "middle sands," through quad, holding big jugs, Wiccamicè, "bobs," of the offending beer in our hands, and tormenting him to taste the stuff the brewer had sent us, and replying to his more-in-sorrow-than-in-anger reproaches, for he was a very mild old gentleman, that we thought the beer would get cool quicker on the flags of the cellar floor than in the hogsheads. Well there was always plenty of college beer in every chamber, as I have said; and probably on coming out from the short eight o'clock evening prayers, some prefect, who did not sport a teamess, would call, "Junior, make me a pot of beer!" Now a "pot of beer" meant, Wiccamicè, not a quart, as in the outside world, but a pint prepared in a certain manner, which was called "making " it. The beer was warmed, a certain portion (it was part of a junior's business to know how much) of sugar and ginger were added, a piece of bread toasted till it was black was put into it, and the pot of beer, with a handsomely frothed head, was made. Any one in chamber who possessed the necessary materials might make himself a pot of beer. And if any boy had cared enough about it to save a portion of bread and cheese and bring it down into the chamber, he had the materials of a comfortable supper. He might make himself a pot of beer, that is to say, if he could find one of the three or four pint cups belonging to the chamber unoccupied by any of his seniors. These pint cups were provided by ourselves, pecuniâ collatitiâ, no provision of the kind being made by the college. They were entrusted to the keeping of the second junior in the chamber, and were a fruitful source of trouble to him. For they were constantly getting broken, or otherwise lost and unfindable when wanted. And they were especially subject to that species of Johnny Armstrong raiding, which has been spoken of. A second junior in chambers, made anxious by the consciousness that some of his own cups were missing, would steal down out of hall during the supper hour, and, making a raid into one of the other chambers, deserted at that time, would make prize of, and carry off, a pint cup or two. They were all exactly alike. It never occurred to any of us, when purchasing them, to select any distinguished either by color or form. We might possibly have done so had we ever found ourselves in the crockery shop. But we had no opportunity for this. We sent at the beginning of every half-year (we never talked of terms in those days) a chorister to buy the cups. And the cups sent to every chamber every year were always exactly the same white, cylindrical cups, holding a pint. Hence it became necessary for the second junior in chamber to mark his cups in such sort as to be able to recognize and reclaim them; if possibly found, perchance, in the hostile territory of another chamber. I remember getting a licking, very justly, for urging once, when I was second junior in chamber, and was being called to account for not having marked the cups, that I knew them by their having no mark, every other second junior in chambers having marked his. "And could not he put his mark on ours, you fool? Hold out your hand!" This evening hour of relaxation from eight to nine was a time of a sort of hospitality between the inmates of one chamber and those of another. A friend from another chamber would come in for a chat, and accept the offer of a pot of beer; or, perhaps, in the case of a fellow prefect, of a cup of tea; though I think the former was the more common offer. And so the pleasant hour wore away till, at nine o'clock, all save the prefects went to bed. Their hour was ten. The junior in chambers lighted the functure; the mess-fags cleared away their master's teathings; and the last half of the last of the four faggots was put on the huge iron dogs. Every inferior was bound to go to bed. For if it should chance that the hostiarius came round and found any boy not a prefect out of bed, the prefect in course would have to answer for it. Theoretically every candle also should be extinguished - always excepting the functure, and one candle on each prefect's washing-stand up to ten o'clock; but this was not insisted on. Many of the inferiors- not, perhaps, the lower juniors, because they were too tired and sleepy, and cared less to study-kept their candles alight on the convenient shelves inside the great wooden testers of the oaken bedsteads, and busied themselves with the lesson for next morning's school, or with a yet unfinished vulgus. Should the master come round,- an incident quite uncertain, occurring, perhaps, two or three nights in succession; perhaps not once in ten days, - and find one of these candles alight, the prefect in course would be responsible for the irregularity. But he was not extreme in insisting on the candles being extinguished, because it was considered that the noise of the master's pass-key in the lock of the chamber door would give ample warning and time for every boy to extinguish his light. Such was an evening in chambers in the olden time. The description is an accurate one; but it has taken so much space in the writing of it, that I have left myself but little room to speak of another matter I wished to advert to. Sydney Smith, in many respects admirable as a canon, infinitely admirable as a wit, was not at all admirable as a Wyke. hamist. He was a bad and unnatural son | large a subject to be entered on at the end of an alma mater, which has assuredly of a paper already too long; and perhaps inspired very different sentiments from I may find an opportunity of returning to those expressed by him in more than it on another occasion. ninety-nine per cent. of her children. Sydney Smith's son writes, as cited by Mr. Adams at p. 158 of his interesting volume entitled "Wykehamica," "My father suffered many years of misery there, years of misery and positive starvation. There never was enough provided even of the coarsest food." Mr. Adams gives some very good reasons for thinking that the causes of the misery complained of were to be found in a subjective rather than an objective consideration of the future radical canon's boyhood; and he knows far too much of the real truth of the matter to accept statements which would seem to be the outcome of experience gathered at some academy for young gentlemen, where the victualling trade overrode the profession of a pedagogue. But he is far from perceiving, or at least from stating, the full absurdity of the complaints made. Mr. Adams was a commoner, which may have caused him to be ignorant on the matter; but Sydney Smith was in college. Mr. Adams demurs to the statement that "not enough of the coarsest food was provided," and remarks that the college was under the administration of Dr. Goddard, the then hostiarius, who was an extremely liberalminded man. From All The Year Round. THACKERAY'S BRIGHTON. THE popular impression that George. the Fourth was the founder of Brighton is not strictly correct; for before the days of the gay prince the town had acquired a considerable reputation as a health resort, with its recognized season, its chalybeate springs, its bathing-machines, and its fashionable physicians. But, though not the founder, Prince George may fairly be regarded as the discoverer of Brighton; for there can be no doubt that the extraor dinary rapidity with which the little Sussex bathing-resort blossomed forth into the queen of watering-places, was due much more to the presence of royalty than to the skill of the local physicians; more to the artificial beauties of the Pavilion than to the natural attractions of the barren cliff. Hence George the Fourth may claim to be the patron, if not the patron saint, of Brighton. Specially associated, then, as the town is with George the Fourth, it is only natural that it should be a conspicuous feature in the dramas of the great novelist who has made a special study of the Georgian period; and it is no doubt to this miliarity with, and affection for, the place, that we owe the various little Brighton scenes which are to be found in the works of Thackeray. It is very strange that Mr. Adams should not know that the hostiarius had no more to do with the administration of the col-association, combined with a personal falege than the first man met in the street; and that his liberality or illiberality could in no wise influence in any slightest degree the provision of food for the scholars. The quantity of that food was in strict and accurate accordance with the provisions of the statutes. The quality in my day was excellent, that of the mutton, indeed, much better than is to be easily met with in these days since science has taught the graziers to kill their meat at two years old. And if it was not good in Sydney Smith's day, it was the fault of the "prefect of tub," who must have been a boy of very nearly his own standing, since Smith became prefect of hall. It is impossible for any reader of Thackeray to spend many hours in Brighton without having some passage from his writings recalled to mind. At every turn we recognize some scene which his graphic pen has depicted, or some locality haunted by his characters. Thackeray himself speaks of George the Fourth as the inventor of Brighton; but we need not be too captious about this phrase. We may take it in its original sense; or we may look upon the prince as the second founder of the town; but, at any rate, let us give the prince his due, and feel grateful to him, as Thackeray says we ought to feel, "for inventing Brighton." It has been alleged against Brighton that it is too modern a town to have any antiquarian objects of interest. But, at any rate, it may claim exemption from the always looks brisk, gay, and gaudy, like a harlequin's jacket; for Brighton, which used to be seven hours distant from London at the time of our story; which is now only a hundred minutes off; and which may approach who knows how much nearer, unless Joinville comes and untimely bombards it." imputation of being nouveau riche; for it essentially belongs to a period fast receding into the distant past; and something of the pathetic interest belonging to more ancient towns is suggested by the sight of certain localities, once the very centre of fashionable life, but now almost deserted, or haunted only by the ghosts of bygone visitors such as the Countess of As we walk along the cliff between the Kew, Colonel Newcome, and Miss Craw-"beautiful prospect of bow windows ley. The Pavilion might this year have (still conspicuous among the more imposcelebrated its centenary; the Chain Pier ing frontages of modern times) and the has seen two generations pass away; and the Ship Inn traces its existence back into the distance of the seventeenth century. Even since the publication of Thackeray's "Vanity Fair the early numbers of which were written at the Ship-a generation has passed away; and during this time the population has doubled, new districts have sprung up, and new localities have become centres of fashion. But amid the changes which lapse of time and the fickleness of fashion have brought about, the characteristic features of the place remain unchanged, and the visitor of to-day cannot fail to be struck by the vivid touches of such a description as the following: "That beautiful prospect of bow windows on one side and the blue sea on the other which Brighton affords to the traveller! Sometimes it is towards the ocean smiling with countless dimples, speckled with white sails, with a hundred bathingmachines kissing the skirt of his blue garment-that the Londoner looks enraptured; sometimes, on the contrary, a lover of human nature rather than of prospects of any kind, it is towards the bow windows that he turns, and that swarm of human life that they exhibit. From one issue the notes of a piano, which a young lady in ringlets practises six hours daily, to the delight of the fellow-lodgers; at another, lovely Polly, the nursemaid, may be seen dandling Master Omnium in her arms, whilst Jacob, his papa, is beheld eating prawns and devouring the Times for breakfast at the window below. Yonder are the Misses Leery, who are looking out for the young officers of the Heavies, who are pretty sure to be pacing the cliff; or again, it is a City man, with a nautical turn, and a telescope the size of a sixpounder, who has his instrument pointed seawards, so as to command every pleasure-boat, herring-boat, or bathing-machine that comes to, or quits, the shore. But have we any leisure for a description of Brighton? for Brighton, a clean Naples with genteel lazzaroni; for Brighton, that blue sea (still "smiling with countless dimples, and speckled with white sails "), there rise irresistibly before the mind's eye some of the old-world characters whom Thackeray has associated with the brisk, gay, gaudy scene before us. Lounging along the cliff, we may see, in imagi nation, three young men of the period of good King George- -a large young dandy, six feet high; a good-looking young officer, with a jaunty air and enormous black whiskers; and a fat, flabby gentleman, more military in attire than his military companions, with clanking bootspurs, and frock-coat ornamented with frogs, knobs, black buttons, and meandering embroidery. "What shall we do, boys, till the ladies return?" asks the most splendid of these bucks. Then follows a discussion of the respective attractions of a game at billiards, the inspection of some new horses that Snaffles has just bought at Lewes fair, or the consumption of ices at Dutton's; till at length the last resource of wateringplace loungers occurs to them, and off they march to the coach-office to see what new arrivals the Lightning coach may bring. Perhaps no introduction is necessary; but, for form's sake, let us present the trio by name: Captain Rawdon Crawley, Guardsman and gambler, but chiefly notable as the husband of Mrs. Becky Crawley, née Sharp; Captain George Osborne, who is spending his brief honeymoon at the Ship with the gentle Amelia; and Joseph Sedley, who, when not too much occupied with the care of his liver, acts as collector at Boggley Wollah. From the coach steps down another familiar figure, Major Dobbin, bringing the thrilling news that the troops are under marching orders for Belgium- and Waterloo. Within a few stones' throw of the Ship were the lodgings of the wealthy Miss Crawley. Here, under the careful attentions of the avaricious, managing, domineering Mrs. Bute, the dear invalid was brought almost to death's door-so low, in fact, that, as her maid pathetically expressed it, "She have no spirit left in her; |