aps, and after ascending an
Atlas-height of stairs, and hugging himself with the anticipation of
crawling instanter luxuriously to bed, finds his door broken down, his
books in the coal-scuttle and grate, his papers covered with more curves
than Newton or Descartes could determine, his bed in the middle of the
room, and his surplice on whose original purity he had so prided himself,
drenched with ink. If he is matriculated he laughs at the _beasts_ (those
who are not matriculated), and mangles slang: _wranglers, fops, and
medalists become_ quite "household words" to him. He walks to Trumpington
every day before _hall_ to get an appetite for dinner, and never misses
grace. He speaks reverently of masters and tutors, and does not curse even
the proctors; he is merciful to his wine-bin, which is chiefly saw-dust,
pays his bills, and owes nobody a guinea--he is a Freshman!--_Monthly
Magazine._

[1] Mr. Simeon's. None of our well-beloved renders, we presume,
are so fresh as not to know this gentleman's name.

[2] One of the sage and momentous injunctions of this pastoral charge.

* * * * *

THE NOVELIST.

THE CONFESSION OF SERVENTIUS.

_From the Latin of an ancient Paduan Manuscript._

_By Miss M.L. Beevor._

(_For the Mirror_.)

The hours of my weary existence are fast verging to a close: already have
the dreadful preparations commenced. Heavily falls the sound of the
midnight bell upon my shrinking ear; upon my withered, quailing heart, it
is _felt_ in every stroke like a thunder-bolt; and the rude, reckless
shout, heard, though far distant, as distinctly as the fearful throbbings
of that miserable heart, tells but too eloquently that the faggots have
reached their place of destination, and that the fearful pile is even now
erecting. Once I believed myself one of the most courageous of men; I have
beheld _death_ in many terrible shapes, and feared it in none; but, oh! to
burn,--to _burn!_ this is a thing from which the startled spirit recoils
in speechless horror, and vainly, vainly strives to wrench itself by
forceful thought from the shuddering, encumbering frame! Even now, do I
seem to behold the finger of scorn pointed at me;--ay,--at ME! whilst
bound to the firm stake with thongs, strong as the iron bands of death, I
cannot even writhe under the anguish of shame, wrath, and apprehended
bodily torture! The pile is lighted,--the last words of the reckless
p