But no such thought as this at that time thrust itself upon us—we were young, bold, self-confident, free, fearless of the future, and dreamed of any thing, in our proud aspirations after all that was great and noble, rather than of that which was so soon to befall us—untimely death the one, the other, long, long years of weary wandering. “My name is George Gordon,” said the Highland giant, “of Newton, near Old Raine, in Aberdeenshire.” “And mine, Frank Forester, of Forest Hall, near Wetherby, in the West Riding.” “Well, Mr. Forester, seeing that we now know one another, suppose we eat our first mutton, side by side, in this hall of Caius, and send the Dons to the devil!” “Agreed, Mr. Gordon, provided that the mutton ended, you will take your _port_ with me, at No. 12 in the Fellows’ Court. It is some of Carbonell’s purple, and by no means to be despised, I assure you. It is a present from John L—, of fox-hunting celebrity in Yorkshire, whom you may perhaps have heard of, even so far as Aberdeenshire.” “Jack L—! who has not heard of him, I should like to know. I shall be too happy, Mr. Forester, the rather that my wine has not yet made its appearance.” “By the way, don’t you think we might just as well drop the Mister?” “And be—George Gordon?” “And Frank Forester. And make these Caius snobs—I have no doubt they _are_ snobs, if they were ten times Dons—believe that we have known each other these ten years.” “Agreed!” “Agreed!” And we shook hands again upon it, and went into hall, and discussed the six year old mutton, undaunted by the observation of the oldsters, and astonishing the youngsters by the offhand way in which _he_ talked of Kintore and Kennedy, and stalking royal harts with cupped horns on Braemar or in Glen Tilt; and _I_ of Paine, of Selby, and Harry Goodrich, and brushing at bullfinches, and switching twenty-five feet brooks; while the pale snobs about us, with tallow faces and sleek hair, short, seedy trousers and black gaiters, were deep in the discussion of the Pons Asinorum, or exchanging experiences concerning tutors and morning lectures, chapels, and deans and proctors. That evening, I will not say that we got fou’, but this I will say, that my squinting gyp, old Robson, reported six fellow-commoners—_id est_, empty bottles—on the hearth the next morning—and that neither of us went to evening chapel that night, or to morning chapel the next day; which cost each of us the writing of an imposition of 600 lines of Virgil, or rather three half-crowns paid to old Dick, the barber, for writing it in our stead. Thenceforth were we sworn friends forever. Thenceforth, eschewing hall, which we voted very slow and bad feeding, we dined alternate days each in the other’s room, the standing order being, soup, chops, or steaks, game, Stilton cheese and walnuts, and ever and aye four bottles to be _aired_ before the fire.