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Most Englishmen know as much about Timbuctoo or Patagonia as they either know or care to know about Oxford or Cambridge. Those, however, who have the curiosity to include such subjects in their knowledge of 'foreign parts,' will find a very pleasant guide to an acquaintance with the geography, language, laws, manners, and customs of Cambridge, in a work recently published by an American student,[5] who some years ago transferred his studies from Yale College to that university.

In describing Cambridge, Mr Bristed asks his readers to imagine the most irregular town that can be imagined—streets of the very crookedest kind, houses low and antique, with their upper storeys sometimes projecting into the narrow pathway, which leads the bewildered stranger every now and then over a muddy little river, winding through the town in all sorts of ways, so that in whatever direction he walks from any point, he is always sure before long to come to a bridge. Such is the town of Cambridge—the bridge over the Cam. And among these narrow, ugly, dirty streets, are tumbled in, as it were at random, some of the most beautiful academical buildings in the world.

It was in the October of 1840, that our young New-Yorker first wended his way through these narrow streets, and gazed upon these beautiful buildings. The idea of an educational institution scattered over an area of some miles, was new to the late inhabitant of the brick barn yclept Yale College. The monkish appearance of the population was no less novel, while his own appearance caused the gownsmen to retaliate his curiosity. He was dressed, he tells us, in the 'last Gothamite fashion, with the usual accessories of gold chain and diamond pin, the whole surmounted by a blue cloth cloak'—a costume which drew down upon him a formidable array of eye-glasses.

Mr Bristed entered Trinity College as a fellow-commoner. The fellow-commoners are 'young men of fortune,' who, in consideration of paying twice as much for everything as anybody else, are allowed the privilege of sitting at the fellows' table in hall, and in their seats at chapel; of wearing a gown with gold or silver lace, and a velvet cap with a metallic tassel; and of getting off with a less number of 'chapels' per week. The main body of the students are called pensioners. The sizars are an inferior class, who receive alms from the college, and dine gratis after the fellows (sic), on the remains of their table.

When one 'goes up,' as the phrase is, to the university, the first academical authority he makes acquaintance with in the regular order of things, is the college tutor. Besides lecturing, this functionary is the medium of all the students' pecuniary relations with the college. He sends in their accounts every term, and receives the money through his banker; nay, more, he takes in their tradesmen's bills, and settles them also. The tutor is supposed to stand in loco parentis. Some colleges have one, others two, and even three tutors, according to the size. The first thing, is to be examined; and this over, the freshman is first inducted into his rooms by a gyp (from γυψ, a vulture!), who acts as flunkey to a dozen or twenty students—calling them in the morning, brushing their clothes, carrying parcels and the queerly-twisted notes they are constantly writing to each other, waiting at their parties, and so on. 'Boots' is a subordinate functionary. The furniture of the room is generally taken from the former occupant at a valuation by the college upholsterer. Crockery he has always to find for himself; but in this matter, again, he has the college authorities to assist him in getting a good article.

We shall now accompany the student through a day's history. Morning chapel begins at seven; and the gyp calls him at half-past six. In chapel, he commences picking up some knowledge of the powers that be, or the dons, as they are styled in the slang of the university. In general terms, they are the master and fellows.

The master, or 'head of the house,' is the supreme ruler within the college walls, and moves about like an undergraduate's deity. The fellows, who form the general body from which the other college-officers are chosen, are the aggregate of those four or five bachelor scholars per annum, who pass the best examination in classics, mathematics, and metaphysics. The eight oldest fellows at any time in residence, together with the master, have the government of the college vested in them. The dean is the presiding officer in chapel: his business is to pull up the absentees—no sinecure, it is said. Even the scholars, who are literally paid for going, every chapel being directly worth two shillings sterling to them, give the dean a good deal of trouble. Other officers are the vice-master, the bursar or treasurer, lecturers, assistant-lecturers, assistant-tutors, four chaplains, and the librarian. Prayers last half an hour; after which the student walks in the college grounds, and by 8, he is seated by his comfortable fire over his hot rolls and tea. At 9, lectures begin, and continue till 12, some ten or eleven going on at once, and each occupying an hour. A little before 1, the student resorts to his private tutor, or coach, as the cantabs call him. He generally takes five or six pupils a day, giving an hour to each. The coach is indispensable to a student; and 'a good coach' is always in great requisition. His intercourse with his pupils is of the most familiar character; nevertheless, he must drive his team well, or he would lose his reputation. From 2 till 4 is the traditional time of exercise, the most usual modes of which are walking (constitutionalising is the cantab for it) and rowing. Cricketing, and all games of ball, are much practised in their respective seasons. Towards 4 p.m., they begin to flock in for dinner. A Latin grace is read by two of the dons, and forthwith the demolition of eatables proceeds. Though there is a common hall, there is no common table. On the contrary, there is no end to the variety, both as respects rank, provision, and privilege. Hall lasts about three-quarters of an hour. Two scholars conclude the business by reading a long Latin grace—the dons, it is said, being too full after dinner for such duty. After hall is emphatically lounging-time. Some stroll in the grounds; many betake themselves to the reading-room; and many assemble at wine-parties, to exchange the gossip of the day. At 6 p.m., the chapel-bell rings again, when the muster is better than in the morning. After chapel, the evening reading begins in earnest. Most of the cantabs are late readers, always endeavouring to secure several hours' consecutive work, their only intermission being to take a cup or two of tea by way of stimulus. One solid meal a day is the rule: even when they go out to sup, as a reading-man does perhaps once a term, and a rowing-man twice a week, they eat very moderately, though the same cannot always be said of their potations. Such is the reading-man's day—now for the boating-man's.

Boating is the university amusement, par excellence. The expense of it is small, and the Cam so convenient—just behind the colleges. At all times of the year you may see solitary men in wherries; while the boat-clubs for the formal spring-races are a convenient outlet for college emulation—the 'top of the river' being an honour hardly inferior to the senior wranglership. Each college has at least one boat-club; and about nine races take place in the season. They have an annual match with Oxford, in which they are generally victorious, for the cantabs are reckoned to be the best smooth-water 'oars' in England, if not in the world. The Cam not being much wider than a canal, it is impossible for the boats to race side by side. They are, therefore, drawn up in a line, two lengths between each, and the contest consists in each boat endeavouring to touch with its bow the stern of the one before it, which operation is called bumping; and at the next race, the bumper takes the place of the bumped. To-day, there is to be a race; and the gownsmen—not in their gowns—are hurrying down to the scene of action, distant two miles from the town. Bang! There goes the first gun! In three minutes, there will be another; and in two more, a third; and then for it! We are at the upper end of 'the Long Reach,' where we have a good view. The eight stalwart Caius-men bend to their oars the moment they see the last gun flash. On they come at a good rate, the Caius-men, who are first, taking it quite easy, when suddenly there is a shout: 'Trinity! Trinity! Go it, Trinity!' Trinity is now overhauling Caius at every stroke; and the partisans of the respective boats fill the air with their shouts. 'Now, Keys (Caius)!' 'Now, Trinity!' 'Why don't you pull, Keys?' 'Now you have 'em, Trinity!' 'Keys!' 'Trinity!' 'Now's your chance, Keys!' 'Pull, Trinity!' 'Pull, Keys!' 'Hurrah, Trinity! inity! inity!' Not more than half a foot intervenes between the pursuer and the pursued, still Caius pulls with all his might; for boats occasionally run a mile almost touching. But there is no more chance. One tremendous pull from Trinity, and half that distance has disappeared. Another such stroke, and you are aboard of them. Hurrah! a bump—a bump! Not so. Caius is on the look-out; and with a skilful inclination of the rudder, the steersman makes his boat fall off—just the least bit in the world, but enough—Trinity overlaps, but does not touch. Another moment, and Trinity is head of the river.

The staple exercise, however, is walking. Between 2 and 4, all the roads in the neighbourhood of Cambridge are covered with men taking their constitutionals. Longer walks, of twelve or fifteen miles, are frequently taken on Sundays. There is not so much riding as might be supposed. When there is ice enough, the cantabs are great skaters. It is almost a sine qua non that their exercise should be in the open air. A finer set of men, consequently, is not to be seen. So bent, indeed, are they upon combining study and recreation, that, during the vacations, they form excursion-parties, which, from their professed design, are called reading-parties (lucus a non lucendo), and of which the utmost that can be advanced in justification of their name is, that reading is not impossible. Reading-parties do not confine themselves to England, or even the United Kingdom; sometimes they go as far as Dresden. When a crack tutor goes on one, which is not often, he takes his whole team with him.

Debating-clubs do not seem to be so common at the English universities as at the Scotch. At Cambridge, there is only one of a public nature—the 'Union.' Henry F. Hallam was instrumental in getting up a small society of about forty members, called the 'Historical.' Another society of a private nature was composed of a number of intellectual aspirants, called the 'Cambridge Apostles;' so called, it is said, because they had usually thirteen members in residence. This was a university feeder to the Metropolitan Club, founded by the friends of John Sterling. Their association had great influence in the formation of their minds and characters—a sort of mutual benefit society in more respects than one. For example, when a member of the club publishes a book, one of the fraternity has a footing in the Edinburgh, another in the Quarterly, a third in Fraser, and a fourth in Blackwood, and so the new work is well introduced. Both Tennyson and Thackeray, it is said, got well taken notice of in this way by their comrades. But there was no plan at the bottom of it—nothing to constitute them a name. The Apostles were always inveighing against cant—always affecting much earnestness, and a hearty dislike of formalism, which rendered them far from popular with the high and dry in literature, politics, or religion. They were eyed with terror by the conservatives as something foreign—German, radical, altogether monstrous. But, in reality, their objects were literary—not religious; and religion only entered into their discussions as it must into those of all serious and philosophic men.

Upon the whole, our young American was much pleased with Cambridge, and much benefited during his residence there. Genial himself, he found Englishmen the same; and though he had his eyes open, while in this country, and never forgot that he was an American, he writes with great impartiality, which raises the value of his intense enthusiasm for the English and English life. After five years' residence, he took leave of his friends in a series of substantial dinners, that there might be a pleasant memory of the transatlantic in their mouths. On a fine May morning, he took his last walk in the beautiful grounds of Trinity, and set out for New York, where he now leads a classical existence, puzzling the natives by his free use of the GrÆco-cantab dialect, as well as by a semi-pagan sort of worship which he pays to his Alma Mater.