I wonder what has become of Emily Blades, daughter
of Blades, the Professor of the Mandingo language? I remember her
shoulders to this day, as she sat in the midst of a crowd of about
seventy young gentlemen, from Corpus and Catherine Hall, entertaining
them with ogles and French songs on the guitar. Are you married, fair
Emily of the shoulders? What beautiful ringlets those were that used to
dribble over them!--what a waist!--what a killing sea-green shot-silk
gown!--what a cameo, the size of a muffin! There were thirty-six young
men of the University in love at one time with Emily Blades: and no
words are sufficient to describe the pity, the sorrow, the deep,
deep commiseration--the rage, fury, and uncharitableness, in other
words--with which the Miss Trumps (daughter of Trumps, the Professor
of Phlebotomy) regarded her, because she DIDN'T squint, and because she
WASN'T marked with the small-pox.
As for the young University Snobs, I am getting too old, now, to speak
of such very familiarly. My recollections of them lie in the far, far
past--almost as far back as Pelham's time.
We THEN used to consider Snobs raw-looking lads, who never missed
chapel; who wore highlows and no straps; who walked two hours on the
Trumpington road every day of their lives; who carried off the college
scholarships, and who overrated themselves in hall.
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