[85]
expect some account of it. Its name is ‘The Literary Club,’ and, like all literary clubs that ever survived the frosts of the first winter, its chief occupation is to eat suppers.
There are twenty-four members, eight or ten of whom are professors; and the students who make up the number are only such as these professors choose, and, of course, are commonly the best of the University.
As many of these members as like—for there is no compulsion—meet once a fortnight at eight o'clock, eat a moderate supper, drink a little wine, laugh and talk two or three hours, and then go home.
We were taken in as a kind of raree-show, I suppose, and we are considered, I doubt not, with much the same curiosity that a tame monkey or a dancing bear would be. We come from such an immense distance, that it is supposed we can hardly be civilized; and it is, I am told, a matter of astonishment to many that we are white, though I think in this point they might consider me rather a fulfilment than a contradiction of their ignorant expectations.
However, whatever may be the motives from which we were taken in, there we are, and we have as good a right to be there as the best of them.
The only time I have been I found it pleasant enough, but I doubt whether I shall go often.
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