142 MEMOIR OF GEORGE WILSON. CHAP. III. 



" LABORATORY, May 4, Friday. 



" My examinations are over, and / am half a physician, and 

 so, five hours after birth, I am writing you the good news, 

 knowing it will interest you. "We receive our summons a week 

 before, from a kindly wish to give us time to look over our sub- 

 jects. I luckily got hold of mine at the College, so they had no 

 idea at home that I was going up. I shall not trouble you with 

 a recital of the toils and troubles through which I passed ; 

 suffice it to say that I began yesterday at ten o'clock, and 

 studied straight on without stopping till three o'clock this 

 morning, so I am rather wearied now, which is my only excuse 

 if this letter be dull and uninteresting. I might amuse by re- 

 citing the contrivance I fell upon to keep myself awake last 

 night. I was in the finest studying trim all day, and dreading 

 I should become sleepy at night, I pilfered a portion of tea, 

 kept a slice of toast, a little cream and butter, which I hid 

 behind a rampart of books, and having commissioned Margaret 

 [a servant] to leave the tea-kettle where I put it, I made myself 

 a cup of tea, and got on excellently; the object of all this 

 secrecy being to conceal my intention of going up for examina - 

 tion to-day. . . . 



"I shall not attempt to run over the peculiarities of each 

 letter you have sent me since I was chained to the oar, but 

 shall only say they were great treats. I took them with me out 

 in my afternoon walk to the Dean Bridge, and read them with 

 much comfort and inward refreshment, and to the last of them I 

 shall somewhat more minutely bind my attention and exchange 

 a few thoughts, as many of the subjects you touch upon are in - 

 teresting to both of us, and excellently fitted for the easy freedom 

 of letters. Don't you fear that I will take into consideration the 

 getting to London ; if possible, I shall come, for nothing could 

 be more delightful, and I could study excellently beside you, 

 but I cannot say anything yet very definite, although I shall 

 write you more explicitly afterwards. . . . Albums are the most 

 flattering and comfortable records of poetry for folks like you 

 and me; one is sure to please, and I should never think of 

 writing songs did not the wish to please, or promise to fill a 

 page, form a stimulus. Now for the story of the soap-bubble, 



