“This morning,” said I, taking the question literally.
“Do you hear that, Ward?” continued he to his companion. “What place did you take?”
“I was on the roof,” replied I, supposing the quaere bore allusion to the mode of my coming.
“Quite classical,” said the elder, a tall, good-looking youth; “you came as did Caesar into Gaul, 'summâ diligentiâ,' on the top of the Diligence.”
They both laughed heartily at a very threadbare college joke, and were about to move away, when the younger, turning round, said, “Have you matriculated?”
“No, sir,—what's that?”
“It's a little ceremony,” interposed the elder, “necessary, and indeed indispensable, to every one coming to reside within these walls. You've heard of Napoleon, I dare say?”
“Bony, is it?” asked I, giving the more familiar title by which he was better known to my circle of acquaintance.
“Exactly,” said he, “Bony. Now Bony used to call a first battle the baptism of Glory; so may we style, in a like way, Matriculation to be the baptism of Knowledge. You understand me, eh?”
“Not all out,” said I, “but partly.”