IN these enlightened times, when the lights and shades of every grade of mortals are rapidly passing in review, perhaps a few loose sketches of College life may amuse and instruct the inquisitive public. With this view and no other, save the prospect of that which the Scripture says the labourer is worthy of, are the ensuing scenes to be disclosed. Imprimis, gentle reader, you may surmise, without being a witch or wizard, that the expositor himself is something more than a mere cockney or country lionizer on the beauties, deformities, and eccentricities of that fine old mother of a million, Granta—yea, that he is even of her own flesh and blood, a real, bonâ fide, legitimate son of hers. Not much of a pet child, perhaps, but enough so to have become possessed of many family secrets; which being perfectly in accordance with the notions of that other old lady, Dame Nature, the teller of them does not much fear her serious displeasure. Alma Mater, then, you must know, if you don't already know it, is a stately magnificent personage, about the age of Methusaleh or so, and yet, as to vigour of mind and body, in the very prime of life. Her members, which are seventeen in number, I will not attempt to describe further than by designating Trinity College as the head, and a fine head it is—the most learned, confessedly, in the whole world.