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conscious that I should in all probability prove to be the last. At the end of the At the end of the passage, however,

I came to a short staircase, and in the dim light I perceived there was a corresponding flight opposite to me, and that a companion in misfortune was hurrying down like myself, two steps at a time, eager to curtail as far as possible the inconvenience our hostess might be suffering. I paused for a second, and so did he. "I am relieved to find, sir," I exclaimed, "that I have a fellow-culprit to share the reproaches which unpunctuality undoubtedly provokes." My vis-à-vis preserved a churlish silence.'

Mr. Garden, who was getting tired of this anecdote, here chimed in: 'I suppose it turned out to be a looking-glass?'

Mr. Venables gave an almost imperceptible wince, but proceeded, without appearing to hear the interruption : ""I trust I am not taking too great a liberty, sir," I went on, "in venturing to jest with a stranger? If so, pray accept my apologies." I advanced, he appeared to do the same, and I discovered I was face to face with

'With a looking-glass!' exclaimed Mr. Garden again. Of course! I knew what was coming!'

'With a mirror!' said Mr. Venables with emphatic asperity, determined not to admit that he had been anticipated.

CHAPTER III

Cambridge-The long-haired Achæans-The free-thinking student and the Senior Dean-The 'Bucks'-'Bank'-An averted misalliance-A Cambridge riot-Instruction in the use of the truncheon by the late Master of Trinity-My University distinction-My uncle Joseph-Weston's walk through Cambridge-Dick Mason's-Cricket at Fenner's-My 'annual average 10.'

It was in the October of 1875 that I went to Trinity College, Cambridge. Although the details of University life may vary from generation to generation its broad lines probably remain much the same. And into however many little coteries undergraduates may elect to group themselves, there must always be the two main divisions— those who work and those who play. There have been, of course, rare but conspicuous instances of men who have excelled in their Triposes as well as in the sports; but as a rule, in my time, the reading men confined their exercise to a long walk or a pull on the river, while the sporting enthusiasts were content to put themselves in the hands of 'Big Smith' (now, alas! no more), who would generally

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succeed in just luffing them safe into the harbour of an ordinary degree. The principal relaxation of the scholars appeared to be political discussion. There was a society called the Chit-Chat Club, which met once a week in the rooms of one or other of its members to discuss a prearranged subject-social, political, or philosophical. It was an offshoot, I fancy, of another debating society called the Magpie and Stump, where the late Lord Colin Campbell, two of the Balfours, Spring Rice, Macaulay, Parker Smith, Richmond Ritchie, and others, were shining lights. The sporting undergraduates entertained a poor opinion of the 'longhaired division,' as those were called who cultivated their intellects sometimes to the neglect of their appearance and manners, while these held the former in at least equal contempt. Each had their faults and merits, and the 'extremists' of either party were equally ridiculous. But I notice, now that about a quarter of a century has passed, that quite as many of the hare-brained set have achieved eminence and distinction in politics and the learned professions as of those who looked on the Tripos as the Ultima Thule of their ambition.

Malthus Roy was an exaggerated type of these young philosophers. He affected a brown velveteen coat and a peacock-blue tie, which gave him the appearance of an æsthetic poacher. I heard him

remark on one occasion, For seven years I was a cynic, but Ruskin cured me.' As he was then only twenty, the cure was presumably a recent one. One day Malthus Roy received, to his great disgust, the ordinary printed notification from his Dean, the Rev. E. H. Staunton, stating that he appeared to have been irregular in his attendance at chapel, and requesting that he would be more regular for the future. This is too preposterous!' exclaimed Malthus. 'It is incredible that such meddlesome sacerdotalism should be permitted in this nineteenth century. I've no doubt Staunton is a well-meaning, conscientious man, according to his lights; but let him confine himself to his own little sphere. How dare he endeavour to control my liberty of conscience?' 'I suppose,' one of us suggested, 'it's his duty-in a way, poor chap!-to try and enforce, as far as he can, the disciplinary rules of the college.' 'It's not a question of discipline,' retorted Malthus; 'it's a question of ethics. The only way I can see to put an end to this pestering is simply to write to him, once and for all, and tell him that religious problems have had their proper share, among others, of my serious study and consideration, and discover to him the conclusions to which I have arrived.' 'It's an awful responsibility,' said another of Roy's friends, after a moment's silence, 'to upset a man's religion-however puerile and inadequate you may

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know it to be-unless you are certain he has a brain capable of absorbing scientific truth, or, at all events, something in its place.' 'I can't help that,' said the relentless Malthus; 'he's brought it on himself. He took the initiative in sending me this medievally impertinent reprimand.' We sat and quaked as Malthus Roy took his place at his writing-table and deliberately indited his profession of infidelity, which cartel he was about to hurl into the blameless sanctum of the Rev. E. H. Staunton. We shuddered to think of the night of sleepless agony which that worthy scholar and cleric would spend when his simple faith in his Creator, in heaven-when all that he cherished and worshipped -should be pulverized and blown into space by the hideous but overwhelming logic of Malthus Roy. We pictured him throwing up his Fellowship, casting off his sable clothes and his clerical collar, and arriving in a suit of light-coloured dittoes to beseech the young philosopher to give him some kind of code to take the place of the shattered belief which had been so much to him. When the iconoclast had covered six or seven sheets with close handwriting, he read his letter out to us. It began thus:

'DEAR SIR,

'There is a time in every man's life when he must think for himself with regard to religious