"UP" IN THE "LONG;" OR, A SOLILOQUY BY A SENIOR SOPH.

IT is my lot this Long, in common with some sixty other Undergraduates of my College, all of us actuated, I am sure, by the best intentions Tripos-ward, to be, during the months of July and August, again a denizen within the precincts of Alma Mater. Dull and deserted though it appear to most, I rather like Cambridge during this season. I like the quiet that reigns in our big College, the cool courts and cloisters, the shaded walks, green banks and placid river; the chapel, no longer over-crowded, where the sunset gleams through the crimsoned pane as the evening anthem dies away into silence; and as I stroll through the still streets and alleys a number of associations crowd upon me from the past, and each quaint gateway and ivied casement is eloquent of days gone by. I am naturally somewhat a lounger, and during these sultry, dusty afternoons, it requires more stoicism than I possess to persevere in the usual four or five miles, out and back, of Term time, for exercise. I must also humbly confess that I am (though it is no fault of my own) 'parcus cultor et infrequens' before the shrine of our great goddess Gymnastiké, at whose fuming altars and numerous votaries Mathesis herself, I take it, often casts a not unjealous eye; and so a stroll through the grounds and along the shady side of Trumpington Street is often my apology for more severe exertion.

It occurs to me, more than once or twice, while thus sedulously idle, that my time here is fast slipping away, and the day is drawing near when College, Hall, and Chapel and the impending Tripos will all be things of the past,that I shall probably rarely revisit these familiar scenes, and that it would be well, while the opportunity still exists, to see something more of the treasures of Art and Learning which this ancient University contains. Perhaps I feel a slight

qualm of conscience as I contrast the enthusiasm, with which I surveyed many an exterior during the first week of my freshman's term, with the real extent of my researches since, but I recall to mind the complacent declaration of that thirdyear man, who knew not the precise locality of his College Library, and am comforted. Well, here is the Fitzwilliam gleaming full upon me and the gate stands invitingly open, and though it is a 'dies non' to the general public, the Cerberus at the gate will invest me with an imaginary cap and gown and let me pass. The shade and coolness are pleasant after the glare without, and the censure (immortalized by Punch) pronounced by that estimable woman, Mrs. Brown, upon the Royal Academy Exhibition, of being "that stuffy," cannot justly be alleged here, for the rooms are lofty and the visitors, to-day, scarce indeed. I confess to being somewhat of an Ishmaelite in my artistic predilections, and have often scandalized my companions, when rambling through Continental picture galleries, by deserting unquestionable Rubens' and Murillos for some queer little picture in a corner by a third-rate Dutch artist. Perhaps, like Mary in the nursery ditty, I am somewhat "contrairy" in my nature, and it being an understood thing that I am to fall into ecstasies over this or that chef-d'œuvre, I decline to do so. The only celebrity that ever really moved me was the Murillo in the Louvre-that is sublime. But still I am conscious of being leagues behind such susceptibility as that of Karl Otfried Müller, to whom the head of an infant Christ by Raphael, which he saw at Dresden, appeared to be "teeming with redemption." And so to-day I go coldly by this Vandyke and those Claudes, to look for some time at a picture which I always visit with renewed zest whenever I come here. It is a small dark picture, and the Catalogue, which, by the bye, is a worthy pendant to the hanging of the pictures (I am incapable of a pun), only tells me that it is "Monks Singing," by Hemskerk. So whether by that Hemskerk whom old Schoorel of Utrecht turned out of doors for being too clever by half, or whether by that Hemskerk who painted boosing boors so well, I cannot say, but incline to the latter. The critics tell me that the Hemskerks were all "eccentric" and their colouring "cold and heavy." A fig for the critics! They shall not mar my enjoyment of this racy work of art. You see four monks seated or standing round a table in a small and dimly-lit room. They are singing. Sanctus or Kyrie, Benedictus or Requiem, what it is I know not. But one

thing you see at a glance, they are singing with a vengeance, and three of them at least with evident relish for the task. Poor fellows! perhaps for them it is the last gleam of social intercourse in the day, and, their melody concluded, each will betake himself to his own cell to tell his beads and meditate till midnight, not without thinking ever and anon of that busy changing world which he has left behind. However this may be they are at it now, and I have an idea that a conscientious metronome would record a swinging pace. Note especially this jolly-looking fellow with hand upraised to mark the time; I suspect he is rather putting on the steam than otherwise, and that the music must really be getting beyond a devotional rate of procedure. And just as, in modern sanctuaries, the pious devotee will innocently blend his voice in certain melodies or hear them, unalarmed, gently moving as voluntaries upon the soft stops of the organ, when a more practised ear might detect simply a retarded edition of "We're a nodding," or even of that air which the profane more commonly associate with the sorrows of the young lady who dwelt on the "other" side of the Thames-so, it strikes me, these singing monks are indulging in the converse of that device, and are getting through their performance at a pace unusual in devotional strains, or such as none but a Mormon elder would consider appropriate when raising a "busting hymn." It is, I daresay, their only expedient by which, without grave scandal and offence, to bring about a substitute for a genial catch or madrigal, for if they were once to begin to sing about trolling the brown bowl," or "the lass with bonnie e'e," the Abbot, of course, would be down upon them in a twinkling. One of the party, however, is far from being equally enthusiastic and looks even pained at the pace. It is this young fellow sitting to the left, whom, from his different coloured dress and lacrymose expression, I conjecture to be some recently initiated novice who has been going in for penance, flagellation, and fasting, with an ardour only calculated to excite the compassion of his more experienced confreres. His looks tell more of jours maigres than of fat capons and Burgundy or Flemish ale, and I would give odds that even now he is conscious of an occasional rheumatic twinge. I am puzzled by the figure in the back-ground-another monk telling his beads before a crucifix, and who is looking round upon the vocal group with an evidently interested air-for I cannot sufficiently determine through the gloom the expression of his face, nor

66

say whether it denotes disturbed devotions and a sanctimonious condemnation of their sinful indulgence, or whether he is himself longing to join in the chorus but deterred by Paters and Aves yet unsaid. Let us hope the latter, and that he will come down before his fellow monks disperse and try his lungs in unison with their's; he will feel all the better for the exercise.

I have little doubt but that I shall be charged, by some reader plenteously endowed with good common sense, with having seen much more in this picture than it contains or was ever meant to contain. In reply to my prosaic friend I submit that I have a right to see all I possibly can in the picture, and if he cannot see as much, that is his concern not mine. John Ruskin is not a critic to be contemptuously set aside; but, if tradition be not an impudent lying minx, he sees much more in Turner's pictures than Turner could see himself. I am well aware, however, that your transcendental critic does, now and then, meet with a rather awkward tumble. Some years ago an old picture was brought to light in London; no one knew whence it came, but the connoisseurs went crazy over it with wonderful unanimity, and pronounced it to be a masterpiece of some great artist, Titian or Paul Veronese-I forget now-but, upon whomever the picture was affiliated, it was fairly accepted as genuine with scarcely a dissentient growl. There was however one feature in it which no one at first could satisfactorily explain and which puzzled the big wigs considerably. Right athwart the picture, emerging from one corner, was a mysterious streak of light, and no one could say what this meant. At last a solution was suggested by a connoisseur of some mark. The scene represented savage life,--they were, he said, without doubt, early Britons, and this streak of light was a beautiful though fanciful mode of typifying the light of Christianity about to dawn upon their land. Well, the solution was thought remarkably happy, and for three or four days its originator was a rising man, and his fellow critics nodded approvingly at him. But then unfortunately there came another man —a man, I should suppose, with "no mind”—and he took out his pocket handkerchief and rubbed out the mysterious streak of light, which was only dust and damp after all. But I defy you, by fair means, to rub out the twinkle of this fat monk's eye and the unctuous smile round his mouth.

On the left, as I enter the Museum, are some specimens of

the decorative work in the great Alhambra palace at Granada. It is but a few days ago that a friend, recently returned from Spain, was detailing to me his visit to this wondrous ruin, so I turn aside to examine with some interest what are not, at first sight, particularly attractive objects. If time and weather had been the sole agents in the work of its destruction, the Alhambra would surely be the most splendid of all the structures that past generations have reared for the admiration of posterity. So dry and pure is the climate of Granada, that in those parts of the palace which have escaped the barbarous hands of the "Christian" occupants, all is bright and fresh as if but of yesterday, or you might suppose that some few years back, the builder, the carpenter, and the decorator had, one fine morning, struck for wages and cleared out, leaving their work unfinished. But the vandalism of Goth or Visigoth, under Adolphus or Theodoric, which had swept over this beauteous peninsula some thousand years before, was nothing in comparison with the merciless depredations, the savage and wanton destruction, with which the enlightened sons of Christendom disported themselves in the former seats of the unbelieving infidel. With that 2nd of January, 1492, when the banner of Castile first floated from the towers of the Alhambra, the work of devastation began. First the monks swarmed in, and, with a view to what they termed "purification," tore down the Moslem symbols and whitewashed the walls. Then came the eldest son of the Church, Carlo Quinto of blessed memory, for whom Theodoric, albeit a thorough-going Goth, was no match whatever. A bull in a china shop conveys but a faint idea of the amenities that marked the occupancy of Sebastiani. The French did what little was left for them to do. Those who wish to know how quickly Granada declined under Spanish rule, should read the graphic account of Andrea Navagiero, "Il Viaggio Fatto in Spagna," printed in 1563. Those who would see that degradation depicted with an eloquence more touching than that of words, should visit the deserted halls, the grass grown courts, the ravished chambers of the Alhambra. These relics are interesting then as illustrating the former magnificence of this world-famed structure. This tile, with a shield in colour, is part of the encaustic pavement of the courts. There is an inscription in the centre of the shield, which, being "no scholar" in an. Oriental acceptation of the word, I cannot read, but I bring one day a friend learned in Eastern tongues, and he deciphers for me "the writing