Watch Doing to a Turn in the Saucepan
When he went in for A.B. his natural diffidence prevented his doing much in the first four days of the Senate House examination, and he was consequently bracketted low: but rallying his confidence, he challenged all the men of his years, and was Senior Wrangler. This incident caused him to be received with rapturous applause, upon his being presented to the Vice-Chancellor for his degree, on the following Saturday. A few days after he is said to have been in London, and entered one of the larger theatres at the same instant with Royalty itself:—the audience rose with one accord, and thunders of applause followed! “This is too much,” said our Cantab to his friend, modestly hiding his face in his hat, having, in the simplicity of his heart, taken the huzzas and claps to be an improved edition of the Senate House. Another Cantab, who was also a Senior Wrangler, and guilty of many singularities, as well as some follies, one who has unjustly heaped reproach on the head of his Alma Mater (see his “Progress of a Senior Wrangler at Cambridge,” in the numbers of the defunct London Magazine,) had the following quaternion posted on his room door in Trinity:—
“King Solomon in days of old,
The wisest man was reckon’d:
I fear as much cannot be told
Of Solomon the Second.”
A HOST OF SINGULARITIES
Are recorded of the famous Cantab and Etonian, the Rev. George Harvest, B. D., who was one day walking in the Temple Gardens, London, with the son of his patron, the great Speaker Onslow, when he picked up a curious pebble, observing he would keep it for his friend, Lord Bute. He and his companion were going to The Beef-steak Club, then held in Ivy-lane. Mr. Onslow asked him what o’clock it was, upon which he took out his watch, and observed they had but ten minutes good. Another turn or two was proposed, but they had scarcely made half the length of the walk, when he coolly put the pebble into his fob, and threw his watch into the Thames. He was at another time in a boat with the same gentleman, when he began to read a favourite Greek author (for, like Porson, his coat pockets generally contained a moderate library) with such emphasis and strange gesticulations, that