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 19, 1862.] tower of the Cathedral, the graceful steeple of the College, the ruins of Wolvesey hidden among the trees—almost under the shadow of the chalky cliff of St. Giles—and far away the grey walls of St. Cross lying below St. Catherine’s Hill—

Crown’d with a peculiar diadem

Of trees, in circular array, so fixed

Not by the sport of nature, but by man;

as in good truth they were by the hands of my Lord Bottetourt and the gallant officers of the Gloucestershire regiment of Militia more than a century ago.

We saunter down under the fine Gothic arch of the west gate, glance at the graceful market cross of the time of Henry VI., walk under the pleasant shade of the avenue of limes, cross the green close, then through the king’s gate with the quaint little church of St. Swithin over the postern, and there, before us, is Wykeham’s Gate, so different as it looks now from the time when we first saw it, with some feelings of trepidation for our probable experiences within its enclosure. There it is, as perfect as the day when the first procession of Warden and Scholars came singing down from St. John’s Hill to take possession; as perfect as when gallant Mr. Nicholas Love and Colonel Nathaniel Fiennes interposed to prevent any injury being offered to it by the truculent Roundheads, and is not the story still told to the scholar when for the first time he hears the statutes read? The courts are full of Wykehamists who have arrived from all corners of the kingdom, waiting for election dinner. In old days we had four dinners, but now the shadow of the Commissioners has fallen upon ancient customs, and we have only this one merry meeting. If you are a stranger we can show you, before the Hall bell rings, some things worth seeing: the quaint figures round the quadrangle which mark the destination of each chamber; the lovely chapel; the exquisite cloisters; with the unique little library in the centre of the green; the Crimean memorial, rich in English marbles, which we erected to the gallant fellows who died in that disastrous campaign; and the wall-painting of the famous “Trusty Servant,” which dates back to 1631 at the latest. An enterprising locksmith of the Strand displays it in his window, framed; we presume from a far-fetched allusion to the allegorical padlock which fastens the porker’s jaws in the original. We could tell you of the great or notable men who have stood on this very spot—Otway, Young, Collins, Somerville, Phillips, and Dibdin; Sir Henry Wotton, Shaftesbury, James Harris, and Sir Thomas Browne; Onslow and Sidmouth; Keats and Warren; Dalbiac, Wilson, and Seaton; of Warham and Grocyn; Chicheley, Fox, and Waynflete; Burgess, Lowth, and Ken; Sydney Smith, Daubeny, and Buckland. We could tell of the Royal Edwards, Henries, and Charles’; of James the Pedant and George III.; of Pope and Peterborough; of Elizabeth and Mary (whose epithalamia the boys sang in Wolvesey Hall); and many another worthy who has entered these venerable walls. But the bell rings, and up the steep stairs we toil into the Hall,—the seniors and grandees of estate at the high table (upon whom Wykeham looks kindly down), the scholars ranged along the sides, and we old stagers at New College table in the centre of the Hall. We will initiate you into the mysteries of our peculiar dishes and potables; there are the long black jacks of leather full of frothing ale or potent huff, there are college puddings, there is unimpeachable crackling. But we have no care for this Barmecidean feast, we cannot tolerate these paper-toasts, and we have anticipated the glorious College grace, its noble benediction and rolling responses; we have forgotten the thanksgiving for William of Wykeham and all other benefactors, and the anthem-like prayer for the Queen, and the sublime Amen; we forget all the years that have elapsed between our “then and now,” for we can hear the music of the military band outside, and we know that “Domum” only waits our coming.

Down, down, down those precipitous stairs, past the chamber in which Waynflete taught, and the whole scene is changed; gay uniforms, pretty faces, dresses of every hue, and lovely figures, eclipse caps and gowns and civilians altogether. Through those tall doors, parted wide, under the Founder’s Statue (Cibber’s work), and we enter the school,—its oak-wainscotted walls, its emblazoned cornice, draped with garlands and flowers and flags. There, on yonder wall, above the orchestra, is the familiar Tabula Legum Pædagogicarum of the time of Good Queen Bess; and opposite are the equally famous mitre and staff, with the legend “Aut disce;” the sword and ink-horn, “Aut discede;” and oh! that Winchester rod, and its ominous reading, “Manet sors tertia cædi.” No wonder “one of us,” when Elizabeth graciously inquired if he had made acquaintance with these twigs, replied, “Infandum, regina, jubes renovare dolorem.”

Listen to that joyous strain—played as only the band of the Royal Marines L.I., Portsmouth Division, can play it—listen to that outburst of voices, and say was ever any sound so triumphantly happy:

Nobile canticum,

Dulce melos Domum.

And if you should detect a tear in our eyes, it is only that of memory of happy days gone by for ever, which are revived by the scene around us, and the changed faces that, like our own, have lost the freshness of that spring time of our lives. Again and again we will join in the chorus in Ball Court, in Meads, in School Court, and under Middle Gate, when the evening has grown late, and in the summer twilight we slowly and reluctantly depart. But we cannot forget one night, some seven years since, when we sang the song in Commoners, with the appropriate tune following of the “Old Folks at Home,” played by the united bands on the occasion. It is a sore temptation to grow sentimental; but we resist the suggestion, for have we not said that Domum is a happy day? Our speech days remain; but Harrow and Eton have like festivals, though the one has lost its “Silver Arrow,” and the other its “Montem;” our plays and comedies are no longer acted, but Westminster preserves the practice. Our Domum is our own peculiar day, and long