[Footnote 40:  No classical stranger could ever pass the porter in his lodge at Brazenose, without being sensibly reminded of a favourite passage in Horace, and exclaiming,
    “Quis multa gracilis—­puer in rosa,
    Perfusus liquidis—­odoribus
    Grato——­sub antro.”
]

[Footnote 41:  “Procumbit humi bos.”  This is not the first time the Doctor has been overcome by port.]

[Footnote 42: 
    “Hine exaudiri gemitus, et saeva sonare
    Verbera, tum stridor ferri tractaeque catenae.”
]

[Footnote 43:  With great practical justice and classical elegance, the words of the assailant are retorted upon himself—­
    “Suo sibi gladio hunc jugulo.”
]

[Footnote 44:  The bouleversement is supposed to have happened on the green adjoining the gravel.]

[Footnote 45:  Dead deans, broken bottles, dilapidated lantherns, under-graduated ladders, and other lumber, have generally found their level under the pavement of Brazenose cloisters.]

[Footnote 46:  Like Virgil’s nightingale or owl—­
          “Ferali carmine bubo
    Flet noctem.”
]

[Footnote 47:  “Post mediam visus noctem cum somnia vera.”]

[Footnote 48:  We have heard it whispered, but cannot undertake to vouch for the truth of the rumour, that a considerable wager now depends upon the accomplishment of this prophecy within nine calendar months after the Doctor has obtained a bona fide degree.]

[Footnote 49:  Alluding to the collegiate punishment before explained.]

* * * * *

CHARLES EDWARD AT VERSAILLES.

ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF CULLODEN.

    Take away that star and garter—­hide them from my loathing sight,
    Neither king nor prince shall tempt me from my lonely room this night;
    Fitting for the throneless exile is the atmosphere of pall,
    And the gusty winds that shiver ’neath the tapestry on the wall. 
    When the taper faintly dwindles like the pulse within the vein,
    That to gay and merry measure ne’er may hope to bound again,
    Let the shadows gather round me while I sit in silence here,
    Broken-hearted, as an orphan watching by his father’s bier. 
    Let me hold my still communion far from every earthly sound—­
    Day of penance—­day of passion—­ever, as the year comes round. 
    Fatal day whereon the latest die was cast for me and mine—­
    Cruel day, that quell’d the fortunes of the hapless Stuart line! 
    Phantom-like, as in a mirror, rise the griesly scenes of death—­
    There before me, in its wildness, stretches bare Culloden’s heath—­
    There the broken clans are scatter’d, gaunt as wolves, and famine-eyed—­
    Hunger gnawing at their vitals—­hope abandon’d—­all but pride—­
    Pride—­and that supreme devotion which the Southron never knew,