for any one to annoy himself with politics or musty metaphysics, and either sort of Mathematics, in the Sweet Summertime: which declaration is very annoying to Questionists near the close of the May-Term, as well as to people who imagine that they have any chance of becoming SeniorWrangler, if the Fates are propitious. You would scarcely think that Karl was the same person who in winter was up to his eyebrows in Scandinavian lore, Malthus on Population, Adam Smith on the Wealth of Nations, and the disputes of Cyprian, Origen, or the other Fathers. Despite his affectation of idleness, Karl is no less busy at present, watching the wondrous transformations of insect life, dissecting flowers, and studying the marvels of atmospheric changes. He is thinking more of the labours of Professors Babington, Liveing, Sedgwick, Balfour, and other Natural Science celebrities, than of those very interesting books in green covers, published by Macmillan, devoted to the consideration of sines, cots, tans, the four normals, constants, and other nursery-literature of the Abstract Students, up to the cobweb intricacies of diagrams which form the art-treasures of our revered top-three in the Tripos. Karl says that "Enjoyment" is the one word spoken by the Sweet Summer-time; even as "Hope" is whispered in every breeze of "Spring," and "Memory" is written on withered leaves of Autumn; whilst Winter, with its stormy weather, exhorts to "Fortitude." He is a strange creature, this Karl, it must be confessed, and it is not always easy to discover whether he is in jest or earnest; especially if he be in high spirits, with the sunshine and bird-warblings of Sweet Summer-time. He becomes intoxicated with thunder and lightning, as the infant Schiller is reported to have been; and the wilder the wind is on dark nights, filling his Academic gown like a ship's sail, and carrying him off his feet under a press of canvass sufficient to capsize a sugar-puncheon, why—all the more delight is it to Karl. He has no idea of what some folks call maintaining his dignity, and likes to startle conventional proprieties out of their daily routine, enjoying the fun of their perplexity as with raised eyebrows they wonder what will next ensue. He plays

tricks as absurdly as a schoolboy, thinks nothing of exploding puns in a white cravat, or a University Examination (e.g., he said something in very crabbed Greek about Edipus's poor feet, which caused a serious difference of opinion between himself and the Examiners,) and would have been willing to make an April-fool of a Russian

Domitian, like Elius Lamia with the "Heu taceam!" although the knout and Siberia might be in immediate reversion. We have heard him gravely proclaim the necessity of laws in England to fetter the press, enforce shaving, and encourage the presence of double yolks in Madingley eggs. All this is "very tolerable and not to be endured." Thus he occasionally mystifies a quidnunc, though he seldom plays these vagaries with his friends, and gets him keyed up to a tone of seriousness. If you met our Karl afterwards, his quiet manner and sad countenance might reveal more earnestness than you at first had given him credit for possessing. Is it that he is afraid of the deeper sorrows and aspirations being seen by those who are sceptical of any worthiness existing without the pale of their own sect or clique? Does he decline to "wear his heart upon his sleeve," because, in such case, "daws will peck at it?" In the apparent want of balance in his nature, so different from the grave equality and proud gentleness of Guzmanis he unjust to himself or to others? The answer is difficult to be given. Persons boast themselves deep and unfathomable in their reserve; but we have seen Karl solve their shallow mysteries in a brace of interviews. He himself seems to remain a riddle, to-day's verdict contradicting that of yesterday. Those who have for years most closely watched him, on his frequent re-emergences from absence and obscurity, always find fresh elements to puzzle them, and they gradually acquiesce in the belief that he is more thoroughly in earnest with the game of life than he cares to admit to anybody. His orbit is so eccentric that you can never be certain whither he is going, or whence he came. His individual acts and words are incongruous. Is he wasting strength on trifles, or obeying the law of his temperament? Is he ever going to do anything great, or is he to be allowed to sport noisily, like a perverse gunpowder cracker, in all Life's Sweet Summer-Time? asks for no permission, no advice, no assistance, no praise, and no extenuation. He is aggravating or conciliatory, destructive or constructive, entirely according to his own disposition. He flashes in and out of all the social mansions, scarcely resting in them, even as tents of a night. His wants are so few that he is seldom at the mercy of Fortune; his enjoyments are so many that he finds happy moments everywhere. It may be this reckless yielding to all whims not actually sinful, combined with a chivalric courtesy towards the weak, and pure reverence of Womanhood, that has made

He

him a favourite with such diverse persons. He has found more affection in the world than has that solemn hidalgo, Guzman, whom all respect, but nobody except intimate friends may presume to love. A dislike to the trammels of 'a position' is possibly the cause of Karl hitherto encouraging others in a feeling of distrust towards him. He too well loves the freedom of his present movements to allow himself to be enslaved by any sect or party in social politics. Therefore, glorying in this versatility, he is now careless, now exacting, about things which seem to others of disproportionate value. We might plead for one, who refuses to plead for himself, in some such words as these:

KARL'S CAP AND BELLS.
Sometimes he'll vent a shocking pun,
Sometimes a sentimental rhyme,
Alternating 'twixt gloom and fun,
As, more or less, through life he's done,
And may continue through all time.

An idle dog!-yet he may think,

In such a chequered world, 'twere well
When he has found his spirits sink,
To jest (whilst others growl, or drink)
And jingle Folly's cap-and-bell.

You'll say, the bauble on his staff

Is not a proper Pilgrim's crook!
But those who weep and those who laugh
Alike from Truth's pure well may quaff,
However diverse they may look.

To us it cannot matter wholly

In what quaint mood his thoughts are clad:
Whether in austere melancholy

Or in the pathwork skirts of Folly.
Belike the heart in each is sad.

If warm that heart, and firm in faith,

Why need his censors frown or snarl, Though he may chase each fancy's wraith? ""Tis not the best of ways!" one saith:

"Friend, are thy ways the best?" says Karl.

Well, we leave the question undecided, except by making this final remark, that the hour is surely come when there is call for every honest worker to rouse and do his stint of labour with full devotedness, "laying aside the sin that doth

VOL. III.

A A

most easily beset us," even though it be the luxurious revelling in all sweet sights and sounds and Midsummer fancies, such as appeal to natures that are less tempted by baser lures. Whatever leads us aside from the pathway that we are imperatively called to tread, must needs be evil and to be resisted; whether by flowers or quagmires, the danger of delay is almost equal. Not here, and not now, should we fail to urge the importance of the command that is laid upon us :-" Whosoever will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross and follow me!" Truly the self-denial may be as fully needed in a May-term as at any other moment. For some ofus the hour of departure approaches: the sweet harbour of College study must be quitted, and the cordage will soon be strained in tempest, or the loyalty of the crew be proved when becalmed in mid-ocean. Let the last words be those of hopeful cheer and friendly warning, as our students pass from the sight of fellow-gownsmen, when entering on the world's struggle in

THE NEW VOYAGE.

The bark is manned, the sails are filled,
The sea-track lureth golden bright,
The waters of the West are stilled

Whereon the setting sun doth 'light;

And from the shore a chorus flows

Voices of friends that hail the bark
With cheers-" God speed thee 'gainst the woes
And perils of the coming dark!"

Creeps from the hold a coward fear,

And whispers "Pause! thy bark is frail;

No sunny harbour will be near

If wrecked by fell Ambition's gale.
The world has abler men, shouldst thou
Abjure these tasks and seek thine ease:
Too long thou'st lingered-wherefore now
With unfit powers assay the breeze?"

I answer: "Standing at their helms,

In barks like mine, I view around
Those whom I love, for diverse realms
With diverse hopes and cargo bound.
We quit the harbour's calm, not loth

We seek instead the gloom and gale;
Before us Work, behind us Sloth,
And God our pilot:-Can we fail ?”

J. W. E.

THE LAST SIGH OF THE BACHELOR.

"

for three years term to live with me, My fellow-scholars, and to keep those statutes That are recorded in this schedule here." "Love's Labour Lost."

I've put on my hood; I am going,
My lov'd Alma Mater, from you;
Scenes hallowed by reading and rowing,
Red brick and rough plaster adieu!

I've ta'en my last sniff of your breezes,
My last hurried glance at your Dons,
From the ivy-wreathed windows of Jesus
To the half-coloured turrets of John's.

Fades off from my soul's recollection
The Degree-week and all its sad hours,
And I think with unfailing affection

Of the joys that I knew 'neath thy towers.

Our Feeds-e'en the great Martin Tupper's
Whole talent and time t'would take up,
To sing of our wines and our suppers
And the divers descriptions of " Cup."

How we'd tunefully treat the aspersion
Of a friend's genial powers as a lie,
How we'd make that immortal assertion
"Which nobody can deny."