ourse. Eh, tell
me, young man, did Boyle say nothing to you about the copy of Erasmus,
bound in vellum, that I sold him in Trinity term, 1782?"

"I rather think not, sir," said I, doubtfully.

"Well, then, he might. He owes me two-and-fourpence of the balance."

"Oh, I beg pardon, sir; I now remember he desired me to repay you that sum;
but he had just sealed the letter when he recollected it."

"Better late than never," said the doctor, smiling graciously. "Where's the
money? Ay! half-a-crown. I haven't twopence--never mind. Go away, young
man; the case is dismissed. _Vehementer miror quare hue venisti_. You're
more fit for anything than a college life. Keep good hours; mind the terms;
and dismiss _Michaelis Liber_. Ha, ha, ha! May the devil!--hem!--that is
do--" So saying, the little doctor's hand pushed me from the hall, his mind
evidently relieved of all the griefs from which he had been suffering, by
the recovery of his long-lost two-and-four-pence.

Such was my first and last interview with the vice-provost, and it made an
impression upon me that all the intervening years have neither dimmed nor
erased.

CHAPTER XVII.

TRINITY COLLEGE.--A LECTURE.

I had not been many weeks a resident of Old Trinity ere the flattering
reputation my chum, Mr. Francis Webber, had acquired, extended also to
myself; and by universal consent, we were acknowledged the most riotous,
ill-conducted, disorderly men on the books of the university. Were the
lamps of the squares extinguished, and the college left in total darkness,
we were summoned before the dean; was the vice-provost serenaded with
a chorus of trombones and French horns, to our taste in music was the
attention ascribed; did a sudden alarm of fire disturb the congregation
at morning chapel, Messrs. Webber and O'Malley were brought before the
board,--and I must do them the justice to say that the most trifling
circumstantial evidence was ever sufficient to bring a conviction. Reading
men avoided the building where we resided as they would have done the
plague. Our doors, like those of a certain classic precinct commemorated by
a Latin writer, lay open night and day, while mustached dragoons, knowingly
dressed four-in-hand men, fox-hunters in pink, issuing forth to the
Dubber or returning splashed from a run with the Kildare hounds, were
everlastingly seen passing and repassing. Within, the noise and confusion
resembled rather the mess-room of a regiment towards