none proofreaders the life and letters of lewis carroll (rev. c. l. dodgson) by stuart dodgson collingwood b.a. christ church, oxford to the child friends of lewis carroll and to all who love his writings this book is dedicated preface it is with no undue confidence that i have accepted the invitation of the brothers and sisters of lewis carroll to write this memoir. i am well aware that the path of the biographer is beset with pitfalls, and that, for him, _suppressio veri_ is almost necessarily _suggestio falsi_--the least omission may distort the whole picture. to write the life of lewis carroll as it should be written would tax the powers of a man of far greater experience and insight than i have any pretension to possess, and even he would probably fail to represent adequately such a complex personality. at least i have done my best to justify their choice, and if in any way i have wronged my uncle's memory, unintentionally, i trust that my readers will pardon me. my task has been a delightful one. intimately as i thought i knew mr. dodgson during his life, i seem since his death to have become still better acquainted with him. if this memoir helps others of his admirers to a fuller knowledge of a man whom to know was to love, i shall not have written in vain. i take this opportunity of thanking those who have so kindly assisted me in my work, and first i must mention my old schoolmaster, the rev. watson hagger, m.a., to whom my readers are indebted for the portions of this book dealing with mr. dodgson's mathematical works. i am greatly indebted to mr. dodgson's relatives, and to all those kind friends of his and others who have aided me, in so many ways, in my difficult task. in particular, i may mention the names of h.r.h. the duchess of albany; miss dora abdy; mrs. egerton allen; rev. f. h. atkinson; sir g. baden-powell, m.p.; mr. a. ball; rev. t. vere bayne; mrs. bennie; miss blakemore; the misses bowman; mrs. boyes; mrs. bremer; mrs. brine; miss mary brown; mrs. calverley; miss gertrude chataway; mrs. chester; mr. j. c. cropper; mr. robert davies; miss decima dodgson; the misses dymes; mrs. eschwege; mrs. fuller; mr. harry furniss; rev. c. a. goodhart; mrs. hargreaves; miss rose harrison; mr. henry holiday; rev. h. hopley; miss florence jackson; rev. a. kingston; mrs. kitchin; mrs. freiligrath kroeker; mr. f. madan; mrs. maitland; miss m. e. manners; miss adelaide paine; mrs. porter; miss edith rix; rev. c. j. robinson, d.d.; mr. s. rogers; mrs. round; miss isabel standen; mr. l. sergeant; miss gaynor simpson; mrs. southwall; sir john tenniel; miss e. gertrude thomson; mrs. woodhouse; and mrs. wyper. for their help in the work of compiling the bibliographical chapter and some other parts of the book, my thanks are due to mr. e. baxter, oxford; the controller of the university press, oxford; mr. a. j. lawrence, rugby; messrs. macmillan and co., london; mr. james parker, oxford; and messrs. ward, lock and co., london. in the extracts which i have given from mr. dodgson's journal and correspondence it will be noticed that italics have been somewhat freely employed to represent the words which he underlined. the use of italics was so marked a feature of his literary style, as any one who has read his books must have observed, that without their aid the rhetorical effect, which he always strove to produce, would have been seriously marred. s. dodgson collingwood guildford, _september_, . contents preface list of illustrations chapter i ( - ) lewis carroll's forebears--the bishop of elphin--murder of captain dodgson--daresbury--living in "wonderland"--croft--boyish amusements--his first school--latin verses--a good report--he goes to rugby--_the rectory umbrella_--"a lay of sorrow" chapter ii ( - ) matriculation at christ church--death of mrs. dodgson--the great exhibition--university and college honours--a wonderful year--a theatrical treat--_misch-masch_--_the train_--_college rhymes_--his _nom de plume_--"dotheboys hall"--alfred tennyson--ordination--sermons--a visit to farringford--"where does the day begin?"--the queen visits oxford chapter iii ( - ) jowett--index to "in memoriam"--the tennysons--the beginning of "alice"--tenniel--artistic friends--"alice's adventures in wonderland"--"bruno's revenge"--tour with dr. liddon--cologne--berlin architecture--the "majesty of justice"--peterhof--moscow--a russian wedding--nijni--the troitska monastery--"hieroglyphic" writing--giessen chapter iv ( - ) death of archdeacon dodgson--lewis carroll's rooms at christ church--"phantasmagoria"--translations of "alice"--"through the looking-glass"--"jabberwocky" in latin--c.s. calverley--"notes by an oxford chiel"--hatfield--vivisection--"the hunting of the snark" chapter v ( - ) dramatic tastes--miss ellen terry--"natural science at oxford"--mr. dodgson as an artist--miss e.g. thomson--the drawing of children--a curious dream--"the deserted parks"--"syzygies"--circus children--row-loving undergraduates--a letter to _the observer_--resignation of the lectureship--he is elected curator of the common room--dream-music. chapter vi ( - ) "the profits of authorship"--"rhyme? and reason?"--the common room cat--visit to jersey--purity of elections--parliamentary representation--various literary projects--letters to miss e. rix--being happy--"a tangled tale"--religious arguments--the "alice" operetta--"alice's adventures underground"--"the game of logic"--mr. harry furniss. chapter vii ( - ) a systematic life--"memoria technica"--mr. dodgson's shyness--"a lesson in latin"--the "wonderland" stamp-case--"wise words about letter-writing"--princess alice--"sylvie and bruno"--"the night cometh"--"the nursery 'alice'"--coventry patmore--telepathy--resignation of dr. liddell--a letter about logic. chapter viii ( - ) mr. dodgson resigns the curatorship--bazaars--he lectures to children--a mechanical "humpty dumpty"--a logical controversy--albert chevalier--"sylvie and bruno concluded"--"pillow problems"--mr. dodgson's generosity--college services--religious difficulties--a village sermon--plans for the future--reverence--"symbolic logic" chapter ix ( - ) logic-lectures--irreverent anecdotes--tolerance of his religious views--a mathematical discovery--"the little minister"--sir george baden-powell--last illness--"thy will be done"--"wonderland" at last!--letters from friends--"three sunsets"--"of such is the kingdom of heaven" chapter x child friends mr. dodgson's fondness for children--miss isabel standen--puzzles--"me and myself"--a double acrostic--"father william"--of drinking healths--kisses by post--tired in the face--the unripe plum--eccentricities--"sylvie and bruno"--"mr. dodgson is going on _well_" chapter xi the same--_continued._ books for children--"the lost plum-cake"--"an unexpected guest"--miss isa bowman--interviews--"matilda jane"--miss edith rix--miss kathleen eschwege bibliography index footnotes * * * * * list of illustrations lewis carroll--frontispiece _from a photograph_. archdeacon dodgson as a young man _from a miniature, painted about_ . daresbury parsonage, lewis carroll's birthplace _from a photograph by lewis carroll_. lewis carroll, aged _from a silhouette_. mrs. dodgson, lewis carroll's mother _from a silhouette_. croft rectory; archdeacon dodgson and family in foreground _from a photograph by lewis carroll_, . toy station in garden at croft _from a photograph_. archbishop tait _from a photograph by elliott and fry_. "the only sister who _would_ write to her brother" _from a drawing by lewis carroll_. "the age of innocence". _from a drawing by lewis carroll_. "the scanty meal" _from a drawing by lewis carroll_. "the first earring" _from a drawing by lewis carroll_. illustrations to "lays of sorrow," no. _from drawings by lewis carroll_. exterior of christ church _from a photograph_. grave of archdeacon and mrs. dodgson in croft churchyard _from a photograph_. lewis carroll, aged _from a photograph_. archdeacon dodgson _from a photograph_. archbishop longley _from a photograph by lewis carroll_. "alas! what boots--" _from a drawing by lewis carroll_. alfred tennyson _from a photograph by lewis carroll_, . the bishop of lincoln _from a photograph by lewis carroll_, . bishop wilberforce _from a photograph by lewis carroll_, . alice liddell as "the beggar-child" _from a photograph by lewis carroll_, . sketch from st. leonard's concert-room _from a drawing by lewis carroll_. george macdonald and his daughter lily _from a photograph by lewis carroll_, . mrs. rossetti and her children, dante gabriel, christina, and william _from a photograph by lewis carroll_, . lorina, alice, and edith liddell _from a photograph by lewis carroll_. george macdonald _from a photograph by lewis carroll_, . j. sant, r.a. _from a photograph by lewis carroll_, . holman hunt _from a photograph by lewis carroll_, . sir john millais _from a photograph by lewis carroll_, . charlotte m. yonge _from a photograph by lewis carroll_, . canon liddon _from a photograph by lewis carroll_, . "instance of hieroglyphic writing of the date " _from a sketch by lewis carroll_. sir john tenniel _from a photograph by bassano_. lewis carroll's study at christ church, oxford _from a photograph_. professor faraday _from a photograph by lewis carroll_, . justice denman _from a photograph by lewis carroll_, . lord salisbury and his two sons _from a photograph by lewis carroll_, . facsimile of a letter from sir john tenniel to lewis carroll, dated june , john ruskin _from a photograph by lewis carroll_, . henry holiday in his studio _from a photograph_. lewis carroll _from a photograph_. ellen terry _from a photograph by lewis carroll_. tom taylor _from a photograph by lewis carroll_, . kate terry _from a photograph by lewis carroll_, . miss e. gertrude thomson _from a photograph_. dr. liddell _from a photograph by hill & saunders_. "responsions" _from a photograph by a.t. shrimpton_. h. furniss _from a photograph_. "balbus and the dragon" _from a crayon drawing by the rev. h.c. gaye_. medley of tenniel's illustrations in "alice" _from an etching by miss whitehead_. facsimile of a letter from h. furniss to lewis carroll, dated august , sylvie and bruno _from a drawing by henry holiday_. facsimile of programme of "alice in wonderland" produced at the royal globe theatre, december , . "the mad tea party" _from a photograph by elliott and fry_. the late duke of albany _from a photograph by lewis carroll_, . the dean of christ church _from a photograph by hill & saunders_. the mechanical "humpty dumpty" _from a photograph_. lewis carroll _from a photograph_. the chestnuts, guildford _from a photograph_. lewis carroll's grave _from a photograph_. lorina and alice liddell _from a photograph by lewis carroll_. alice liddell _from a photograph by lewis carroll_. xie kitchin _from a photograph by lewis carroll_. xie kitchin as a chinaman _from a photograph by lewis carroll_. alice and the dormouse _from a photograph by elliott and fry_. facsimile of a "looking-glass" letter from lewis carroll to miss edith ball arthur hughes and his daughter agnes _from a photograph by lewis carroll_, . "what i look like when i'm lecturing" _from a drawing by lewis carroll_. * * * * * chapter i ( - .) lewis carroll's forebears--the bishop of elphin--murder of captain dodgson--daresbury--living in "wonderland"--croft--boyish amusements--his first school--latin verses--a good report--he goes to rugby--_the rectory umbrella_--"a lay of sorrow." the dodgsons appear to have been for a long time connected with the north of england, and until quite recently a branch of the family resided at stubb hall, near barnard castle. in the early part of the last century a certain rev. christopher dodgson held a living in yorkshire. his son, charles, also took holy orders, and was for some time tutor to a son of the then duke of northumberland. in his patron presented him to the living of elsdon, in northumberland, by no means a desirable cure, as mr. dodgson discovered. the following extracts from his letters to various members of the percy family are interesting as giving some idea of the life of a rural clergyman a hundred years ago: i am obliged to you for promising to write to me, but don't give yourself the trouble of writing to this place, for 'tis almost impossible to receive 'em, without sending a messenger miles to fetch 'em. 'tis impossible to describe the oddity of my situation at present, which, however, is not void of some pleasant circumstances. a clogmaker combs out my wig upon my curate's head, by way of a block, and his wife powders it with a dredging-box. the vestibule of the castle (used as a temporary parsonage) is a low stable; above it the kitchen, in which are two little beds joining to each other. the curate and his wife lay in one, and margery the maid in the other. i lay in the parlour between two beds to keep me from being frozen to death, for as we keep open house the winds enter from every quarter, and are apt to sweep into bed to me. elsdon was once a market town as some say, and a city according to others; but as the annals of the parish were lost several centuries ago, it is impossible to determine what age it was either the one or the other. there are not the least traces of the former grandeur to be found, whence some antiquaries are apt to believe that it lost both its trade and charter at the deluge. ... there is a very good understanding between the parties [he is speaking of the churchmen and presbyterians who lived in the parish], for they not only intermarry with one another, but frequently do penance together in a white sheet, with a white wand, barefoot, and in the coldest season of the year. i have not finished the description for fear of bringing on a fit of the ague. indeed, the ideas of sensation are sufficient to starve a man to death, without having recourse to those of reflection. if i was not assured by the best authority on earth that the world is to be destroyed by fire, i should conclude that the day of destruction is at hand, but brought on by means of an agent very opposite to that of heat. i have lost the use of everything but my reason, though my head is entrenched in three night-caps, and my throat, which is very bad, is fortified by a pair of stockings twisted in the form of a cravat. as washing is very cheap, i wear _two_ shirts at a time, and, for want of a wardrobe, i hang my great coat upon my own back, and generally keep on my boots in imitation of my namesake of sweden. indeed, since the snow became two feet deep (as i wanted a 'chaappin of yale' from the public-house), i made an offer of them to margery the maid, but her legs are too thick to make use of them, and i am told that the greater part of my parishioners are not less substantial, and notwithstanding this they are remarkable for agility. in course of time this mr. dodgson became bishop of ossory and ferns, and he was subsequently translated to the see of elphin. he was warmly congratulated on this change in his fortunes by george iii., who said that he ought indeed to be thankful to have got away from a palace where the stabling was so bad. the bishop had four children, the eldest of whom, elizabeth anne, married charles lutwidge, of holmrook, in cumberland. two of the others died almost before they had attained manhood. charles, the eldest son, entered the army, and rose to the rank of captain in the th dragoon guards. he met with a sad fate while serving his king and country in ireland. one of the irish rebels who were supposed to have been concerned in the murder of lord kilwarden offered to give himself up to justice if captain dodgson would come alone and at night to take him. though he fully realised the risk, the brave captain decided to trust himself to the honour of this outlaw, as he felt that no chance should be missed of effecting so important a capture. having first written a letter of farewell to his wife, he set out on the night of december , , accompanied by a few troopers, for the meeting-place--an old hut that stood a mile or so from phillipstown, in king's county. in accordance with the terms of the agreement, he left his men a few hundred yards from the hut to await his return, and advanced alone through the night. a cowardly shot from one of the windows of the cottage ended his noble life, and alarmed the troopers, who, coming up in haste, were confronted with the dead body of their leader. the story is told that on the same night his wife heard two shots fired, and made inquiry about it, but could find out nothing. shortly afterwards the news came that her husband had been killed just at that time. captain dodgson left two sons behind him--hassard, who, after a brilliant career as a special pleader, became a master of the court of common pleas, and charles, the father of the subject of this memoir. charles, who was the elder of the two, was born in the year , at hamilton, in lanarkshire. he adopted the clerical profession, in which he rose to high honours. he was a distinguished scholar, and took a double first at christ church, oxford. although in after life mathematics were his favourite pursuit, yet the fact that he translated tertullian for the "library of the fathers" is sufficient evidence that he made good use of his classical education. in the controversy about baptismal regeneration he took a prominent part, siding on the question with the tractarians, though his views on some other points of church doctrine were less advanced than those of the leaders of the oxford movement. he was a man of deep piety and of a somewhat reserved and grave disposition, which, however, was tempered by the most generous charity, so that he was universally loved by the poor. in moments of relaxation his wit and humour were the delight of his clerical friends, for he had the rare power of telling anecdotes effectively. his reverence for sacred things was so great that he was never known to relate a story which included a jest upon words from the bible. in he married his cousin, frances jane lutwidge, by whom he had eleven children, all of whom, except lewis carroll, survive. his wife, in the words of one who had the best possible opportunities for observing her character, was "one of the sweetest and gentlest women that ever lived, whom to know was to love. the earnestness of her simple faith and love shone forth in all she did and said; she seemed to live always in the conscious presence of god. it has been said by her children that they never in all their lives remember to have heard an impatient or harsh word from her lips." it is easy to trace in lewis carroll's character the influence of that most gentle of mothers; though dead she still speaks to us in some of the most beautiful and touching passages of his works. not so long ago i had a conversation with an old friend of his; one of the first things she said to me was, "tell me about his mother." i complied with her request as well as i was able, and, when i had finished my account of mrs. dodgson's beautiful character, she said, "ah, i knew it must have been so; i felt sure he must have had a good mother." on january , , charles lutwidge dodgson was born at daresbury, of which parish his father was then incumbent. the village of daresbury is about seven miles from warrington; its name is supposed to be derived from a word meaning oak, and certainly oaks are very plentiful in the neighbourhood. a canal passes through an outlying part of the parish. the bargemen who frequented this canal were a special object of mr. dodgson's pastoral care. once, when walking with lord francis egerton, who was a large landowner in the district, he spoke of his desire to provide some sort of religious privileges for them. "if i only had £ ," he said, "i would turn one of those barges into a chapel," and, at his companion's request, he described exactly how he would have the chapel constructed and furnished. a few weeks later he received a letter from lord francis to tell him that his wish was fulfilled, and that the chapel was ready. in this strange church, which is believed to have been the first of its kind, mr. dodgson conducted service and preached every sunday evening! [illustration: daresbury parsonage] the parsonage is situated a mile and a half from the village, on the glebe-farm, having been erected by a former incumbent, who, it was said, cared more for the glebe than the parish. here it was that charles spent the first eleven years of his life--years of complete seclusion from the world, for even the passing of a cart was a matter of great interest to the children. [illustration: lewis carroll, aged .] in this quiet home the boy invented the strangest diversions for himself; he made pets of the most odd and unlikely animals, and numbered certain snails and toads among his intimate friends. he tried also to encourage civilised warfare among earthworms, by supplying them with small pieces of pipe, with which they might fight if so disposed. his notions of charity at this early age were somewhat rudimentary; he used to peel rushes with the idea that the pith would afterwards "be given to the poor," though what possible use they could put it to he never attempted to explain. indeed he seems at this time to have actually lived in that charming "wonderland" which he afterwards described so vividly; but for all that he was a thorough boy, and loved to climb the trees and to scramble about in the old marl-pits. one of the few breaks in this very uneventful life was a holiday spent with the other members of his family in beaumaris. the journey took three days each way, for railroads were then almost unknown; and whatever advantages coaching may have had over travelling in trains, speed was certainly not one of them. mr. dodgson from the first used to take an active part in his son's education, and the following anecdote will show that he had at least a pupil who was anxious to learn. one day, when charles was a very small boy, he came up to his father and showed him a book of logarithms, with the request, "please explain." mr. dodgson told him that he was much too young to understand anything about such a difficult subject. the child listened to what his father said, and appeared to think it irrelevant, for he still insisted, "_but_, please, explain!" [illustration: mrs. dodgson] on one occasion mr. and mrs. dodgson went to hull, to pay a visit to the latter's father, who had been seriously ill. from hull mrs. dodgson wrote to charles, and he set much store by this letter, which was probably one of the first he had received. he was afraid that some of his little sisters would mess it, or tear it up, so he wrote upon the back, "no one is to touch this note, for it belongs to c. l. d."; but, this warning appearing insufficient, he added, "covered with slimy pitch, so that they will wet their fingers." the precious letter ran as follows:-- my dearest charlie, i have used you rather ill in not having written to you sooner, but i know you will forgive me, as your grandpapa has liked to have me with him so much, and i could not write and talk to him comfortably. all your notes have delighted me, my precious children, and show me that you have not quite forgotten me. i am always thinking of you, and longing to have you all round me again more than words can tell. god grant that we may find you all well and happy on friday evening. i am happy to say your dearest papa is quite well--his cough is rather _tickling_, but is of no consequence. it delights me, my darling charlie, to hear that you are getting on so well with your latin, and that you make so few mistakes in your exercises. you will be happy to hear that your dearest grandpapa is going on nicely--indeed i hope he will soon be quite well again. he talks a great deal and most kindly about you all. i hope my sweetest will says "mama" sometimes, and that precious tish has not forgotten. give them and all my other treasures, including yourself, , , , kisses from me, with my most affectionate love. i am sending you a shabby note, but i cannot help it. give my kindest love to aunt dar, and believe me, my own dearest charlie, to be your sincerely affectionate mama. among the few visitors who disturbed the repose of daresbury parsonage was mr. durnford, afterwards bishop of chichester, with whom mr. dodgson had formed a close friendship. another was mr. bayne, at that time head-master of warrington grammar school, who used occasionally to assist in the services at daresbury. his son, vere, was charles's playfellow; he is now a student of christ church, and the friendship between him and lewis carroll lasted without interruption till the death of the latter. the memory of his birthplace did not soon fade from charles's mind; long afterwards he retained pleasant recollections of its rustic beauty. for instance, his poem of "the three sunsets," which first appeared in in _all the year round,_ begins with the following stanzas, which have been slightly altered in later editions:-- i watch the drowsy night expire, and fancy paints at my desire her magic pictures in the fire. an island farm, 'mid seas of corn, swayed by the wandering breath of morn, the happy spot where i was born. though nearly all mr. dodgson's parishioners at daresbury have passed away, yet there are still some few left who speak with loving reverence of him whose lips, now long silenced, used to speak so kindly to them; whose hands, long folded in sleep, were once so ready to alleviate their wants and sorrows. in sir robert peel presented him to the crown living of croft, a yorkshire village about three miles south of darlington. this preferment made a great change in the life of the family; it opened for them many more social opportunities, and put an end to that life of seclusion which, however beneficial it may be for a short time, is apt, if continued too long, to have a cramping and narrowing influence. the river tees is at croft the dividing line between yorkshire and durham, and on the middle of the bridge which there crosses it is a stone which shows where the one county ends and the other begins. "certain lands are held in this place," says lewis in his "topographical dictionary," "by the owner presenting on the bridge, at the coming of every new bishop of durham, an old sword, pronouncing a legendary address, and delivering the sword to the bishop, who returns it immediately." the tees is subject to extraordinary floods, and though croft church stands many feet above the ordinary level of the river, and is separated from it by the churchyard and a field, yet on one occasion the church itself was flooded, as was attested by water-marks on the old woodwork several feet from the floor, still to be seen when mr. dodgson was incumbent. this church, which is dedicated to st. peter, is a quaint old building with a norman porch, the rest of it being of more modern construction. it contains a raised pew, which is approached by a winding flight of stairs, and is covered in, so that it resembles nothing so much as a four-post bedstead. this pew used to belong to the milbanke family, with which lord byron was connected. mr. dodgson found the chancel-roof in so bad a state of repair that he was obliged to take it down, and replace it by an entirely new one. the only village school that existed when he came to the place was a sort of barn, which stood in a corner of the churchyard. during his incumbency a fine school-house was erected. several members of his family used regularly to help in teaching the children, and excellent reports were obtained. the rectory is close to the church, and stands in the middle of a beautiful garden. the former incumbent had been an enthusiastic horticulturist, and the walls of the kitchen garden were covered with luxuriant fruit-trees, while the greenhouses were well stocked with rare and beautiful exotics. among these was a specimen of that fantastic cactus, the night-blowing cereus, whose flowers, after an existence of but a few hours, fade with the waning sun. on the day when this occurred large numbers of people used to obtain mr. dodgson's leave to see the curiosity. [illustration: croft rectory] near the rectory is a fine hotel, built when croft was an important posting-station for the coaches between london and edinburgh, but in mr. dodgson's time chiefly used by gentlemen who stayed there during the hunting season. the village is renowned for its baths and medicinal waters. the parish of croft includes the outlying hamlets of halnaby, dalton, and stapleton, so that the rector's position is by no means a sinecure. within the village is croft hall, the old seat of the chaytors; but during mr. dodgson's incumbency the then sir william chaytor built and lived at clervaux castle, calling it by an old family name. shortly after accepting the living of croft, mr. dodgson was appointed examining chaplain to the bishop of ripon; subsequently he was made archdeacon of richmond and one of the canons of ripon cathedral. charles was at this time very fond of inventing games for the amusement of his brothers and sisters; he constructed a rude train out of a wheelbarrow, a barrel and a small truck, which used to convey passengers from one "station" in the rectory garden to another. at each of these stations there was a refreshment-room, and the passengers had to purchase tickets from him before they could enjoy their ride. the boy was also a clever conjuror, and, arrayed in a brown wig and a long white robe, used to cause no little wonder to his audience by his sleight-of-hand. with the assistance of various members of the family and the village carpenter, he made a troupe of marionettes and a small theatre for them to act in. he wrote all the plays himself the most popular being "the tragedy of king john"--and he was very clever at manipulating the innumerable strings by which the movements of his puppets were regulated. one winter, when the snow lay thick upon the lawn, he traced upon it a maze of such hopeless intricacy as almost to put its famous rival at hampton court in the shade. [illustration: toy station in garden at croft.] when he was twelve years old his father sent him to school at richmond, under mr. tate, a worthy son of that well-known dr. tate who had made richmond school so famous. i am able to give his earliest impressions of school-life in his own words, for one of his first letters home has been fortunately preserved. it is dated august th, and is addressed to his two eldest sisters. a boy who has _ten_ brothers and sisters can scarcely be expected to write separate letters to each of them. my dear fanny and memy,--i hope you are all getting on well, as also the sweet twins, the boys i think that i like the best, are harry austin, and all the tates of which there are besides a little girl who came down to dinner the first day, but not since, and i also like edmund tremlet, and william and edward swire, tremlet is a sharp little fellow about years old, the youngest in the school, i also like kemp and mawley. the rest of the boys that i know are bertram, harry and dick wilson, and two robinsons, i will tell you all about them when i return. the boys have played two tricks upon me which were these--they first proposed to play at "king of the cobblers" and asked if i would be king, to which i agreed. then they made me sit down and sat (on the ground) in a circle round me, and told me to say "go to work" which i said, and they immediately began kicking me and knocking me on all sides. the next game they proposed was "peter, the red lion," and they made a mark on a tombstone (for we were playing in the churchyard) and one of the boys walked with his eyes shut, holding out his finger, trying to touch the mark; then a little boy came forward to lead the rest and led a good many very near the mark; at last it was my turn; they told me to shut my eyes well, and the next minute i had my finger in the mouth of one of the boys, who had stood (i believe) before the tombstone with his mouth open. for nights i slept alone, and for the rest of the time with ned swire. the boys play me no tricks now. the only fault (tell mama) that there has been was coming in one day to dinner just after grace. on sunday we went to church in the morning, and sat in a large pew with mr. fielding, the church we went to is close by mr. tate's house, we did not go in the afternoon but mr. tate read a discourse to the boys on the th commandment. we went to church again in the evening. papa wished me to tell him all the texts i had heard preached upon, please to tell him that i could not hear it in the morning nor hardly one sentence of the sermon, but the one in the evening was i cor. i. . i believe it was a farewell sermon, but i am not sure. mrs. tate has looked through my clothes and left in the trunk a great many that will not be wanted. i have had misfortunes in my clothes etc. st, i cannot find my tooth-brush, so that i have not brushed my teeth for or days, nd, i cannot find my blotting paper, and rd, i have no shoe-horn. the chief games are, football, wrestling, leap frog, and fighting. excuse bad writing. yr affec' brother charles. _to_ skeff [_a younger brother, aged six_]. my dear skeff,--roar not lest thou be abolished. yours, etc.,--. the discomforts which he, as a "new boy," had to put up with from his school-mates affected him as they do not, unfortunately, affect most boys, for in later school days he was famous as a champion of the weak and small, while every bully had good reason to fear him. though it is hard for those who have only known him as the gentle and retiring don to believe it, it is nevertheless true that long after he left school his name was remembered as that of a boy who knew well how to use his fists in defence of a righteous cause. as was the custom at that time, charles began to compose latin verses at a very early age, his first copy being dated november , . the subject was evening, and this is how he treated it:-- phoebus aqua splendet descendens, æquora tingens splendore aurato. pervenit umbra solo. mortales lectos quærunt, et membra relaxant fessa labore dies; cuncta per orbe silet. imperium placidum nunc sumit phoebe corusca. antris procedunt sanguine ore feræ. these lines the boy solemnly copied into his diary, apparently in the most blissful ignorance of the numerous mistakes they contained. the next year he wrote a story which appeared in the school magazine. it was called "the unknown one," so it was probably of the sensational type in which small boys usually revel. though richmond school, as it was in , may not compare favourably in every respect with a modern preparatory school, where supervision has been so far "reduced to the absurd" that the unfortunate masters hardly get a minute to themselves from sunrise till long after sunset, yet no better or wiser men than those of the school of mr. tate are now to be found. nor, i venture to think, are the results of the modern system more successful than those of the old one. charles loved his "kind old schoolmaster," as he affectionately calls him, and surely to gain the love of the boys is the main battle in school-management. the impression he made upon his instructors may be gathered from the following extracts from mr. tate's first report upon him: sufficient opportunities having been allowed me to draw from actual observation an estimate of your son's character and abilities, i do not hesitate to express my opinion that he possesses, along with other and excellent natural endowments, a very uncommon share of genius. gentle and cheerful in his intercourse with others, playful and ready in conversation, he is capable of acquirements and knowledge far beyond his years, while his reason is so clear and so jealous of error, that he will not rest satisfied without a most exact solution of whatever appears to him obscure. he has passed an excellent examination just now in mathematics, exhibiting at times an illustration of that love of precise argument, which seems to him natural. i must not omit to set off against these great advantages one or two faults, of which the removal as soon as possible is desirable, tho' i am prepared to find it a work of time. as you are well aware, our young friend, while jealous of error, as i said above, where important faith or principles are concerned, is exceedingly lenient towards lesser frailties--and, whether in reading aloud or metrical composition, frequently sets at nought the notions of virgil or ovid as to syllabic quantity. he is moreover marvellously ingenious in replacing the ordinary inflexions of nouns and verbs, as detailed in our grammars, by more exact analogies, or convenient forms of his own devising. this source of fault will in due time exhaust itself, though flowing freely at present.... you may fairly anticipate for him a bright career. allow me, before i close, one suggestion which assumes for itself the wisdom of experience and the sincerity of the best intention. you must not entrust your son with a full knowledge of his superiority over other boys. let him discover this as he proceeds. the love of excellence is far beyond the love of excelling; and if he should once be bewitched into a mere ambition to surpass others i need not urge that the very quality of his knowledge would be materially injured, and that his character would receive a stain of a more serious description still.... and again, when charles was leaving richmond, he wrote: "be assured that i shall always feel a peculiar interest in the gentle, intelligent, and well-conducted boy who is now leaving us." although his father had been a westminster boy, charles was, for some reason or other, sent to rugby. the great arnold, who had, one might almost say, created rugby school, and who certainly had done more for it than all his predecessors put together, had gone to his rest, and for four years the reins of government had been in the firm hands of dr. tait, afterwards archbishop of canterbury. he was headmaster during the whole of the time charles was at rugby, except the last year, during which dr. goulburn held that office. charles went up in february, , and he must have found his new life a great change from his quiet experiences at richmond. football was in full swing, and one can imagine that to a new boy "big-side" was not an unalloyed delight. whether he distinguished himself as a "dropper," or ever beat the record time in the "crick" run, i do not know. probably not; his abilities did not lie much in the field of athletics. but he got on capitally with his work, and seldom returned home without one or more prizes. moreover, he conducted himself so well that he never had to enter that dreaded chamber, well known to _some_ rugbeians, which is approached by a staircase that winds up a little turret, and wherein are enacted scenes better imagined than described. [illustration: archbishop tait. _from a photograph by messrs. elliott and fry_] a schoolboy's letter home is not, usually, remarkable for the intelligence displayed in it; as a rule it merely leads up with more or less ingenuity to the inevitable request for money contained in the postscript. some of charles's letters were of a different sort, as the following example shows: yesterday evening i was walking out with a friend of mine who attends as mathematical pupil mr. smythies the second mathematical master; we went up to mr. smythies' house, as he wanted to speak to him, and he asked us to stop and have a glass of wine and some figs. he seems as devoted to his duty as mr. mayor, and asked me with a smile of delight, "well dodgson i suppose you're getting well on with your mathematics?" he is very clever at them, though not equal to mr. mayor, as indeed few men are, papa excepted.... i have read the first number of dickens' new tale, "davy copperfield." it purports to be his life, and begins with his birth and childhood; it seems a poor plot, but some of the characters and scenes are good. one of the persons that amused me was a mrs. gummidge, a wretched melancholy person, who is always crying, happen what will, and whenever the fire smokes, or other trifling accident occurs, makes the remark with great bitterness, and many tears, that she is a "lone lorn creetur, and everything goes contrairy with her." i have not yet been able to get the second volume macaulay's "england" to read. i have seen it however and one passage struck me when seven bishops had signed the invitation to the pretender, and king james sent for bishop compton (who was one of the seven) and asked him "whether he or any of his ecclesiastical brethren had anything to do with it?" he replied, after a moment's thought "i am fully persuaded your majesty, that there is not one of my brethren who is not as innocent in the matter as myself." this was certainly no actual lie, but certainly, as macaulay says, it was very little different from one. the mr. mayor who is mentioned in this letter formed a very high opinion of his pupil's ability, for in he wrote to archdeacon dodgson: "i have not had a more promising boy at his age since i came to rugby." dr. tait speaks no less warmly:-- my dear sir,--i must not allow your son to leave school without expressing to you the very high opinion i entertain of him. i fully coincide in mr. cotton's estimate both of his abilities and upright conduct. his mathematical knowledge is great for his age, and i doubt not he will do himself credit in classics. as i believe i mentioned to you before, his examination for the divinity prize was one of the most creditable exhibitions i have ever seen. during the whole time of his being in my house, his conduct has been excellent. believe me to be, my dear sir, yours very faithfully, a.c. tait. public school life then was not what it is now; the atrocious system then in vogue of setting hundreds of lines for the most trifling offences made every day a weariness and a hopeless waste of time, while the bad discipline which was maintained in the dormitories made even the nights intolerable--especially for the small boys, whose beds in winter were denuded of blankets that the bigger ones might not feel cold. charles kept no diary during his time at rugby; but, looking back upon it, he writes in :-- during my stay i made i suppose some progress in learning of various kinds, but none of it was done _con amore_, and i spent an incalculable time in writing out impositions--this last i consider one of the chief faults of rugby school. i made some friends there, the most intimate being henry leigh bennett (as college acquaintances we find fewer common sympathies, and are consequently less intimate)--but i cannot say that i look back upon my life at a public school with any sensations of pleasure, or that any earthly considerations would induce me to go through my three years again. when, some years afterwards, he visited radley school, he was much struck by the cubicle system which prevails in the dormitories there, and wrote in his diary, "i can say that if i had been thus secure from annoyance at night, the hardships of the daily life would have been comparative trifles to bear." the picture on page was, i believe, drawn by charles rile he was at rugby in illustration of a letter received from one of his sisters. halnaby, as i have said before, was an outlying district of croft parish. during his holidays he used to amuse himself by editing local magazines. indeed, they might be called _very local_ magazines, as their circulation was confined to the inmates of croft rectory. the first of these, _useful and instructive poetry_, was written about . it came to an untimely end after a six months' run, and was followed at varying intervals by several other periodicals, equally short-lived. in or , _the rectory umbrella_ began to appear. as the editor was by this time seventeen or eighteen years old, it was naturally of a more ambitious character than any of its precursors. it contained a serial story of the most thrilling interest, entitled, "the walking-stick of destiny," some meritorious poetry, a few humorous essays, and several caricatures of pictures in the vernon gallery. three reproductions of these pictures follow, with extracts from the _umbrella_ descriptive of them. [illustration: the only sister who _would_ write to her brother, though the table had just "folded down"! the other sisters are depicted "sternly resolved to set off to halnaby & the castle," tho' it is yet "early, early morning"--rembrondt.] the vernon gallery. as our readers will have seen by the preceding page, we have commenced engraving the above series of pictures. "the age of innocence," by sir j. reynolds, representing a young hippopotamus seated under a shady tree, presents to the contemplative mind a charming union of youth and innocence. editor. [illustration: _"the scanty meal."_] we have been unusually[ ] successful in our second engraving from the vernon gallery. the picture is intended, as our readers will perceive, to illustrate the evils of homoeopathy.[ ] this idea is well carried out through the whole picture. the thin old lady at the head of the table is in the painter's best style; we almost fancy we can trace in the eye of the other lady a lurking suspicion that her glasses are not really in fault, and that the old gentleman has helped her to _nothing_ instead of a nonillionth.[ ] her companion has evidently got an empty glass in his hand; the two children in front are admirably managed, and there is a sly smile on the footman's face, as if he thoroughly enjoyed either the bad news he is bringing or the wrath of his mistress. the carpet is executed with that elaborate care for which mr. herring is so famed, and the picture on the whole is one of his best. "_the first ear-ring_" the scene from which this excellent picture is painted is taken from a passage in the autobiography[ ] of the celebrated sir william smith[ ] of his life when a schoolboy: we transcribe the passage: "one day bill tomkins[ ] and i were left alone in the house, the old doctor being out; after playing a number of pranks bill laid me a bet of sixpence that i wouldn't pour a bottle of ink over the doctor's cat. _i did it_, but at that moment old muggles came home, and caught me by the ear as i attempted to run away. my sensations at the moment i shall never forget; _on that occasion i received my first ear-ring_.[ ] the only remark bill made to me, as he paid me the money afterwards was, 'i say, didn't you just howl jolly!'" the engraving is an excellent copy of the picture. [illustration: sir d. wilkie painter the first earring. w. greatbach engraver. _from the picture in the vernon gallery_] the best thing in the _rectory umbrella_ was a parody on lord macaulay's style in the "lays of ancient rome"; charles had a special aptitude for parody, as is evidenced by several of the best-known verses in his later books. lays of sorrow. no. . fair stands the ancient[ ] rectory, the rectory of croft, the sun shines bright upon it, the breezes whisper soft. from all the house and garden its inhabitants come forth, and muster in the road without, and pace in twos and threes about, the children of the north. some are waiting in the garden, some are waiting at the door, and some are following behind, and some have gone before. but wherefore all this mustering? wherefore this vast array? a gallant feat of horsemanship will be performed to-day. to eastward and to westward, the crowd divides amain, two youths are leading on the steed, both tugging at the rein; and sorely do they labour, for the steed[ ] is very strong, and backward moves its stubborn feet, and backward ever doth retreat, and drags its guides along. and now the knight hath mounted, before the admiring band, hath got the stirrups on his feet. the bridle in his hand. yet, oh! beware, sir horseman! and tempt thy fate no more, for such a steed as thou hast got, was never rid before! the rabbits[ ] bow before thee. and cower in the straw; the chickens[ ] are submissive, and own thy will for law; bullfinches and canary thy bidding do obey; and e'en the tortoise in its shell doth never say thee nay. but thy steed will hear no master, thy steed will bear no stick, and woe to those that beat her, and woe to those that kick![ ] for though her rider smite her, as hard as he can hit, and strive to turn her from the yard, she stands in silence, pulling hard against the pulling bit. and now the road to dalton hath felt their coming tread, the crowd are speeding on before, and all have gone ahead. yet often look they backward, and cheer him on, and bawl, for slower still, and still more slow, that horseman and that charger go, and scarce advance at all. and now two roads to choose from are in that rider's sight: in front the road to dalton, and new croft upon the right. "i can't get by!" he bellows, "i really am not able! though i pull my shoulder out of joint, i cannot get him past this point, for it leads unto his stable!" then out spake ulfrid longbow,[ ] a valiant youth was he, "lo! i will stand on thy right hand and guard the pass for thee!" and out spake fair flureeza,[ ] his sister eke was she, "i will abide on thy other side, and turn thy steed for thee!" and now commenced a struggle between that steed and rider, for all the strength that he hath left doth not suffice to guide her. though ulfrid and his sister have kindly stopped the way, and all the crowd have cried aloud, "we can't wait here all day!" round turned he as not deigning their words to understand, but he slipped the stirrups from his feet the bridle from his hand, and grasped the mane full lightly, and vaulted from his seat, and gained the road in triumph,[ ] and stood upon his feet. all firmly till that moment had ulfrid longbow stood, and faced the foe right valiantly, as every warrior should. but when safe on terra firma his brother he did spy, "what _did_ you do that for?" he cried, then unconcerned he stepped aside and let it canter by. they gave him bread and butter,[ ] that was of public right, as much as four strong rabbits, could munch from morn to night, for he'd done a deed of daring, and faced that savage steed, and therefore cups of coffee sweet, and everything that was a treat, were but his right and meed. and often in the evenings, when the fire is blazing bright, when books bestrew the table and moths obscure the light, when crying children go to bed, a struggling, kicking load; we'll talk of ulfrid longbow's deed, how, in his brother's utmost need, back to his aid he flew with speed, and how he faced the fiery steed, and kept the new croft road. [illustration: exterior of christ church] * * * * * chapter ii ( - .) matriculation at christ church--death of mrs. dodgson--the great exhibition--university and college honours--a wonderful year--a theatrical treat--_misch-masch--the train--college rhymes_--his _nom de plume_--"dotheboys hall"--alfred tennyson--ordination--sermons--a visit to farringford--"where does the day begin?"--the queen visits oxford. we have traced in the boyhood of lewis carroll the beginnings of those characteristic traits which afterwards, more fully developed, gave him so distinguished a position among his contemporaries. we now come to a period of his life which is in some respects necessarily less interesting. we all have to pass through that painful era of self-consciousness which prefaces manhood, that time when we feel so deeply, and are so utterly unable to express to others, or even to define clearly to ourselves, what it is we do feel. the natural freedom of childhood is dead within us; the conventional freedom of riper years is struggling to birth, and its efforts are sometimes ludicrous to an unsympathetic observer. in lewis carroll's mental attitude during this critical period there was always a calm dignity which saved him from these absurdities, an undercurrent of consciousness that what seemed so great to him was really very little. on may , , he matriculated at christ church, the venerable college which had numbered his father's among other illustrious names. a letter from dr. jelf, one of the canons of christ church, to archdeacon dodgson, written when the former heard that his old friend's son was coming up to "the house," contains the following words: "i am sure i express the common feeling of all who remember you at christ church when i say that we shall rejoice to see a son of yours worthy to tread in your footsteps." lewis carroll came into residence on january , . from that day to the hour of his death--a period of forty-seven years--he belonged to "the house," never leaving it for any length of time, becoming almost a part of it. i, for one, can hardly imagine it without him. though technically "in residence," he had not rooms of his own in college during his first term. the "house" was very full; and had it not been for one of the tutors, the rev. j. lew, kindly lending him one of his own rooms, he would have had to take lodgings in the town. the first set of rooms he occupied was in peckwater quadrangle, which is annually the scene of a great bonfire on guy fawkes' day, and, generally speaking, is not the best place for a reading man to live in. in those days the undergraduates dining in hall were divided into "messes." each mess consisted of about half a dozen men, who had a table to themselves. dinner was served at five, and very indifferently served, too; the dishes and plates were of pewter, and the joint was passed round, each man cutting off what he wanted for himself. in mr. dodgson's mess were philip pusey, the late rev. g. c. woodhouse, and, among others, one who still lives in "alice in wonderland" as the "hatter." only a few days after term began, mrs. dodgson died suddenly at croft. the shock was a terrible one to the whole family, and especially to her devoted husband. i have come across a delightful and most characteristic letter from dr. pusey--a letter full of the kindest and truest sympathy with the archdeacon in his bereavement. the part of it which bears upon mrs. dodgson's death i give in full:-- [illustration: grave of archdeacon and mrs. dodgson in croft churchyard.] my dear friend, i hear and see so little and so few persons, that i had not heard of your sorrow until your to-day's letter; and now i but guess what it was: only your language is that of the very deepest. i have often thought, since i had to think of this, how, in all adversity, what god takes away he may give us back with increase. one cannot think that any holy earthly love will cease, when we shall "be like the angels of god in heaven." love here must shadow our love there, deeper because spiritual, without any alloy from our sinful nature, and in the fulness of the love of god. but as we grow here by god's grace will be our capacity for endless love. so, then, if by our very sufferings we are purified, and our hearts enlarged, we shall, in that endless bliss, love more those whom we loved here, than if we had never had that sorrow, never been parted.... lewis carroll was summoned home to attend the funeral--a sad interlude amidst the novel experiences of a first term at college. the oxford of was in many ways quite unlike the oxford of . the position of the undergraduates was much more similar to that of schoolboys than is now the case; they were subject to the same penalties--corporal punishment, even, had only just gone out of vogue!--and were expected to work, and to work hard. early rising then was strictly enforced, as the following extract from one of his letters will show:-- i am not so anxious as usual to begin my personal history, as the first thing i have to record is a very sad incident, namely, my missing morning chapel; before, however, you condemn me, you must hear how accidental it was. for some days now i have been in the habit of, i will not say getting up, but of being called at a quarter past six, and generally managing to be down soon after seven. in the present instance i had been up the night before till about half-past twelve, and consequently when i was called i fell asleep again, and was thunderstruck to find on waking that it was ten minutes past eight. i have had no imposition, nor heard anything about it. it is rather vexatious to have happened so soon, as i had intended never to be late. [illustration: lewis carroll, aged .] it was therefore obviously his custom to have his breakfast _before_ going to chapel. i wonder how many undergraduates of the present generation follow the same hardy rule! but then no "impositions" threaten the modern sluggard, even if he neglects chapel altogether. during the long vacation he visited the great exhibition, and wrote his sister elizabeth a long account of what he had seen:-- i think the first impression produced on you when you get inside is one of bewilderment. it looks like a sort of fairyland. as far as you can look in any direction, you see nothing but pillars hung about with shawls, carpets, &c., with long avenues of statues, fountains, canopies, etc., etc., etc. the first thing to be seen on entering is the crystal fountain, a most elegant one about thirty feet high at a rough guess, composed entirely of glass and pouring down jets of water from basin to basin; this is in the middle of the centre nave, and from it you can look down to either end, and up both transepts. the centre of the nave mostly consists of a long line of colossal statues, some most magnificent. the one considered the finest, i believe, is the amazon and tiger. she is sitting on horseback, and a tiger has fastened on the neck of the horse in front. you have to go to one side to see her face, and the other to see the horse's. the horse's face is really wonderful, expressing terror and pain so exactly, that you almost expect to hear it scream.... there are some very ingenious pieces of mechanism. a tree (in the french compartment) with birds chirping and hopping from branch to branch exactly like life. the bird jumps across, turns round on the other branch, so as to face back again, settles its head and neck, and then in a few moments jumps back again. a bird standing at the foot of the tree trying to eat a beetle is rather a failure; it never succeeds in getting its head more than a quarter of an inch down, and that in uncomfortable little jerks, as if it was choking. i have to go to the royal academy, so must stop: as the subject is quite inexhaustible, there is no hope of ever coming to a regular finish. on november st he won a boulter scholarship, and at the end of the following year obtained first class honours in mathematics and a second in classical moderations. on christmas eve he was made a student on dr. pusey's nomination, for at that time the dean and canons nominated to studentships by turn. the only conditions on which these old studentships were held were that the student should remain unmarried, and should proceed to holy orders. no statute precisely defined what work was expected of them, that question being largely left to their own discretion. the eight students at the bottom of the list that is to say, the eight who had been nominated last--had to mark, by pricking on weekly papers called "the bills," the attendance at morning and evening chapel. they were allowed to arrange this duty among themselves, and, if it was neglected, they were all punished. this long-defunct custom explains an entry in lewis carroll's diary for october , , "found i had got the prickbills two hundred lines apiece, by not pricking in in the morning," which, i must confess, mystified me exceedingly at first. another reference to college impositions occurs further on in his diary, at a time when he was a lecturer: "spoke to the dean about f--, who has brought an imposition which his tutor declares is not his own writing, after being expressly told to write it himself." the following is an extract from his father's letter of congratulation, on his being nominated for the studentship:-- my dearest charles,--the feelings of thankfulness and delight with which i have read your letter just received, i must leave to _your conception_; for they are, i assure you, beyond _my expression_; and your affectionate heart will derive no small addition of joy from thinking of the joy which you have occasioned to me, and to all the circle of your home. i say "_you_ have occasioned," because, grateful as i am to my old friend dr. pusey for what he has done, i cannot desire stronger evidence than his own words of the fact that you have _won_, and well won, this honour for _yourself_, and that it is bestowed as a matter of _justice_ to _you_, and not of _kindness_ to _me_. you will be interested in reading extracts from his two letters to me--the first written three years ago in answer to one from me, in which i distinctly told him that i neither asked nor expected that he should serve me in this matter, unless my son should fairly reach the standard of merit by which these appointments were regulated. in reply he says-- "i thank you for the way in which you put the application to me. i have now, for nearly twenty years, not given a studentship to any friend of my own, unless there was no very eligible person in the college. i have passed by or declined the sons of those to whom i was personally indebted for kindness. i can only say that i shall have _very great_ pleasure, if circumstances permit me to nominate your son." in his letter received this morning he says-- "i have great pleasure in telling you that i have been enabled to recommend your son for a studentship this christmas. it must be so much more satisfactory to you that he should be nominated thus, in consequence of the recommendation of the college. one of the censors brought me to-day five names; but in their minds it was plain that they thought your son on the whole the most eligible for the college. it has been very satisfactory to hear of your son's uniform steady and good conduct." the last clause is a parallel to your own report, and i am glad that you should have had so soon an evidence so substantial of the truth of what i have so often inculcated, that it is the "steady, painstaking, likely-to-do-good" man, who in the long run wins the race against those who now and then give a brilliant flash and, as shakespeare says, "straight are cold again." [illustration: archdeacon dodgson.] in archdeacon dodgson was collated and installed as one of the canons of ripon cathedral. this appointment necessitated a residence of three months in every year at ripon, where dr. erskine was then dean. a certain miss anderson, who used to stay at the deanery, had very remarkable "clairvoyant" powers; she was able--it was averred--by merely holding in her hand a folded paper containing some words written by a person unknown to her, to describe his or her character. in this way, at what precise date is uncertain, she dictated the following description of lewis carroll: "very clever head; a great deal of number; a great deal of imitation; he would make a good actor; diffident; rather shy in general society; comes out in the home circle; rather obstinate; very clever; a great deal of concentration; very affectionate; a great deal of wit and humour; not much eventuality (or memory of events); fond of deep reading; imaginative, fond, of reading poetry; _may_ compose." those who knew him well will agree that this was, at any rate, a remarkable coincidence. longley, afterwards primate, was then bishop of ripon. his charming character endeared him to the archdeacon and his family, as to every one else who saw much of him. he was one of the few men whose faces can truly be called _beautiful_; it was a veil through which a soul, all gentleness and truth, shone brightly. in the early part of mr. dodgson was reading hard for "greats." for the last three weeks before the examination he worked thirteen hours a day, spending the whole night before the _viva voce_ over his books. but philosophy and history were not very congenial subjects to him, and when the list was published his name was only in the third class. [illustration: archbishop longley.] he spent the long vacation at whitby, reading mathematics with professor price. his work bore good fruit, for in october he obtained first class honours in the final mathematical school. "i am getting quite tired of being congratulated on various subjects," he writes; "there seems to be no end of it. if i had shot the dean i could hardly have had more said about it." in another letter dated december th, he says: enclosed you will find a list which i expect you to rejoice over considerably; it will take me more than a day to believe it, i expect--i feel at present very like a child with a new toy, but i daresay i shall be tired of it soon, and wish to be pope of rome next.... i have just been to mr. price to see how i did in the papers, and the result will i hope be gratifying to you. the following were the sums total for each in the first class, as nearly as i can remember:-- dodgson ... ... ... bosanquet ... ... ... cookson ... ... ... fowler ... ... ... ranken ... ... ... he also said he never remembered so good a set of men in. all this is very satisfactory. i must also add (this is a very boastful letter) that i ought to get the senior scholarship next term.... one thing more i will add, to crown all, and that is, i find i am the next first class mathematical student to faussett (with the exception of kitchin who has given up mathematics), so that i stand next (as bosanquet is going to leave) for the lectureship. on december th he took the degree of bachelor of arts, and on october , , he was made a "master of the house," in honour of the appointment of the new dean (dr. liddell) who succeeded dean gaisford. to be made master of the house means that a man has all the privileges of a master of arts within the walls of christ church. but he must be of a certain number of terms' standing, and be admitted in due form by the vice-chancellor, before he is a master of arts of the university. in this wider sense mr. dodgson did not take his master's degree until . this is anticipating events, and there is much to tell of the year , which was a very eventful one for him. on february th he was made sub-librarian. "this will add £ to my income," he writes, "not much towards independence." for he was most anxious to have a sufficient income to make him his own master, that he might enter on the literary and artistic career of which he was already dreaming. on may th he wrote in his diary: "the dean and canons have been pleased to give me one of the bostock scholarships, said to be worth £ a year--this very nearly raises my income this year to independence. courage!" his college work, during , was chiefly taking private pupils, but he had, in addition, about three and a half hours a day of lecturing during the last term of the year. he did not, however, work as one of the regular staff of lecturers until the next year. from that date his work rapidly increased, and he soon had to devote regularly as much as seven hours a day to delivering lectures, to say nothing of the time required for preparing them. the following extract from his journal, june , , will serve to show his early love for the drama. the scene is laid at the princess' theatre, then at the height of its glory:-- the evening began with a capital farce, "away with melancholy," and then came the great play, "henry viii.," the greatest theatrical treat i ever had or ever expect to have. i had no idea that anything so superb as the scenery and dresses was ever to be seen on the stage. kean was magnificent as cardinal wolsey, mrs. kean a worthy successor to mrs. siddons as queen catherine, and all the accessories without exception were good--but oh, that exquisite vision of queen catherine's! i almost held my breath to watch: the illusion is perfect, and i felt as if in a dream all the time it lasted. it was like a delicious reverie, or the most beautiful poetry. this is the true end and object of acting--to raise the mind above itself, and out of its petty cares. never shall i forget that wonderful evening, that exquisite vision--sunbeams broke in through the roof, and gradually revealed two angel forms, floating in front of the carved work on the ceiling: the column of sunbeams shone down upon the sleeping queen, and gradually down it floated, a troop of angelic forms, transparent, and carrying palm branches in their hands: they waved these over the sleeping queen, with oh! such a sad and solemn grace. so could i fancy (if the thought be not profane) would real angels seem to our mortal vision, though doubtless our conception is poor and mean to the reality. she in an ecstasy raises her arms towards them, and to sweet slow music, they vanish as marvellously as they came. then the profound silence of the audience burst at once into a rapture of applause; but even that scarcely marred the effect of the beautiful sad waking words of the queen, "spirits of peace, where are ye?" i never enjoyed anything so much in my life before; and never felt so inclined to shed tears at anything fictitious, save perhaps at that poetical gem of dickens, the death of little paul. on august st he received a long letter from his father, full of excellent advice on the importance to a young man of saving money:-- i will just sketch for you [writes the archdeacon] a supposed case, applicable to your own circumstances, of a young man of twenty-three, making up his mind to work for ten years, and living to do it, on an income enabling him to save £ a year--supposing him to appropriate it thus:-- £ s. d. invested at per cent. ... ... life insurance of £ , ... books, besides those bought in ordinary course ... ... ... _____________ £ suppose him at the end of the ten years to get a living enabling him to settle, what will be the result of his savings:-- . a nest egg of £ , ready money, for furnishing and other expenses. . a sum of £ , secured at his death on payment of a _very much_ smaller annual premium than if he had then begun to insure it. . a useful library, worth more than £ , besides the books bought out of his current income during the period.... the picture on the opposite page is one of mr. dodgson's illustrations in _misch-masch,_ a periodical of the nature of _the rectory umbrella_, except that it contained printed stories and poems by the editor, cut out of the various newspapers to which he had contributed them. of the comic papers of that day _punch,_ of course, held the foremost place, but it was not without rivals; there was a certain paper called _diogenes_, then very near its end, which imitated _punch's_ style, and in the proprietor of _the illustrated news_, at that time one of the most opulent publishers in london, started _the comic times._ a capable editor was found in edmund yates; "phiz" and other well-known artists and writers joined the staff, and , copies of the first number were printed. [illustration: studies from english poets ii "alas! what boots--" milton's lucidas.] among the contributors was frank smedley, author of "frank fairleigh." though a confirmed invalid, and condemned to spend most of his days on a sofa, mr. smedley managed to write several fine novels, full of the joy of life, and free from the least taint of discontent or morbid feeling. he was one of those men--one meets them here and there--whose minds rise high above their bodily infirmities; at moments of depression, which come to them as frequently, if not more frequently, than to other men, they no doubt feel their weakness, and think themselves despised, little knowing that we, the stronger ones in body, feel nothing but admiration as we watch the splendid victory of the soul over its earthly companion which their lives display. it was through frank smedley that mr. dodgson became one of the contributors to _the comic times_. several of his poems appeared in it, and mr. yates wrote to him in the kindest manner, expressing warm approval of them. when _the comic times_ changed hands in , and was reduced to half its size, the whole staff left it and started a new venture, _the train_. they were joined by sala, whose stories in _household words_ were at that time usually ascribed by the uninitiated to charles dickens. mr. dodgson's contributions to _the train_ included the following: "solitude" (march, ); "novelty and romancement" (october, ); "the three voices" (november, ); "the sailor's wife" (may, ); and last, but by no means least, "hiawatha's photographing" (december, ). all of these, except "novelty and romancement," have since been republished in "rhyme? and reason?" and "three sunsets." the last entry in mr. dodgson's diary for this year reads as follows:-- i am sitting alone in my bedroom this last night of the old year, waiting for midnight. it has been the most eventful year of my life: i began it a poor bachelor student, with no definite plans or expectations; i end it a master and tutor in ch. ch., with an income of more than £ a year, and the course of mathematical tuition marked out by god's providence for at least some years to come. great mercies, great failings, time lost, talents misapplied--such has been the past year. his diary is full of such modest depreciations of himself and his work, interspersed with earnest prayers (too sacred and private to be reproduced here) that god would forgive him the past, and help him to perform his holy will in the future. and all the time that he was thus speaking of himself as a sinner, and a man who was utterly falling short of his aim, he was living a life full of good deeds and innumerable charities, a life of incessant labour and unremitting fulfilment of duty. so, i suppose, it is always with those who have a really high ideal; the harder they try to approach it the more it seems to recede from them, or rather, perhaps, it is impossible to be both "the subject and spectator" of goodness. as coventry patmore wrote:-- become whatever good you see; nor sigh if, forthwith, fades from view the grace of which you may not be the subject and spectator too. the reading of "alton locke" turned his mind towards social subjects. "if the book were but a little more definite," he writes, "it might stir up many fellow-workers in the same good field of social improvement. oh that god, in his good providence, may make me hereafter such a worker! but alas, what are the means? each one has his own _nostrum_ to propound, and in the babel of voices nothing is done. i would thankfully spend and be spent so long as i were sure of really effecting something by the sacrifice, and not merely lying down under the wheels of some irresistible juggernaut." he was for some time the editor of _college rhymes_, a christ church paper, in which his poem, "a sea dirge" (afterwards republished in "phantasmagoria," and again in "rhyme? and reason?"), first appeared. the following verses were among his contributions to the same magazine:-- i painted her a gushing thing, with years perhaps a score i little thought to find they were at least a dozen more; my fancy gave her eyes of blue, a curly auburn head: i came to find the blue a green, the auburn turned to red. she boxed my ears this morning, they tingled very much; i own that i could wish her a somewhat lighter touch; and if you were to ask me how her charms might be improved, i would not have them _added to_, but just a few _removed_! she has the bear's ethereal grace, the bland hyena's laugh, the footstep of the elephant, the neck of the giraffe; i love her still, believe me, though my heart its passion hides; "she is all my fancy painted her," but oh! _how much besides_! it was when writing for _the train_ that he first felt the need of a pseudonym. he suggested "dares" (the first syllable of his birthplace) to edmund yates, but, as this did not meet with his editor's approval, he wrote again, giving a choice of four names, ( ) edgar cuthwellis, ( ) edgar u. c. westhall, ( ) louis carroll, and ( ) lewis carroll. the first two were formed from the letters of his two christian names, charles lutwidge; the others are merely variant forms of those names--lewis = ludovicus = lutwidge; carroll = carolus = charles. mr. yates chose the last, and thenceforward it became mr. dodgson's ordinary _nom de plume_. the first occasion on which he used it was, i believe, when he wrote "the path of roses," a poem which appeared in _the train_ in may, . on june th he again visited the princess's theatre. this time the play was "a winter's tale," and he "especially admired the acting of the little mamillius, ellen terry, a beautiful little creature, who played with remarkable ease and spirit." during the long vacation he spent a few weeks in the english lake district. in spite of the rain, of which he had his full share, he managed to see a good deal of the best scenery, and made the ascent of gable in the face of an icy gale, which laid him up with neuralgia for some days. he and his companions returned to croft by way of barnard castle, as he narrates in his diary:-- we set out by coach for barnard castle at about seven, and passed over about forty miles of the dreariest hill-country i ever saw; the climax of wretchedness was reached in bowes, where yet stands the original of "dotheboys hall"; it has long ceased to be used as a school, and is falling into ruin, in which the whole place seems to be following its example--the roofs are falling in, and the windows broken or barricaded--the whole town looks plague-stricken. the courtyard of the inn we stopped at was grown over with weeds, and a mouthing idiot lolled against the corner of the house, like the evil genius of the spot. next to a prison or a lunatic asylum, preserve me from living at bowes! although he was anything but a sportsman, he was interested in the subject of betting, from a mathematical standpoint solely, and in he sent a letter to _bell's life_, explaining a method by which a betting man might ensure winning over any race. the system was either to back _every_ horse, or to lay against _every_ horse, according to the way the odds added up. he showed his scheme to a sporting friend, who remarked, "an excellent system, and you're bound to win--_if only you can get people to take your bets_." in the same year he made the acquaintance of tennyson, whose writings he had long intensely admired. he thus describes the poet's appearance:-- a strange shaggy-looking man; his hair, moustache, and beard looked wild and neglected; these very much hid the character of the face. he was dressed in a loosely fitting morning coat, common grey flannel waistcoat and trousers, and a carelessly tied black silk neckerchief. his hair is black; i think the eyes too; they are keen and restless--nose aquiline--forehead high and broad--both face and head are fine and manly. his manner was kind and friendly from the first; there is a dry lurking humour in his style of talking. i took the opportunity [he goes on to say] of asking the meaning of two passages in his poems, which have always puzzled me: one in "maud"-- strange that i hear two men somewhere talking of me; well, if it prove a girl, my boy will have plenty; so let it be. he said it referred to maud, and to the two fathers arranging a match between himself and her. the other was of the poet-- dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, the love of love. he said that he was quite willing it should bear any meaning the words would fairly bear; to the best of his recollection his meaning when he wrote it was "the hate of the quality hate, &c.," but he thought the meaning of "the quintessence of hatred" finer. he said there had never been a poem so misunderstood by the "ninnies of critics" as "maud." [illustration: alfred tennyson. _from a photograph by lewis carroll._] during an evening spent at tent lodge tennyson remarked, on the similarity of the monkey's skull to the human, that a young monkey's skull is quite human in shape, and gradually alters--the analogy being borne out by the human skull being at first more like the statues of the gods, and gradually degenerating into human; and then, turning to mrs. tennyson, "there, that's the second original remark i've made this evening!" mr. dodgson saw a great deal of the tennysons after this, and photographed the poet himself and various members of his family. in october he made the acquaintance of john ruskin, who in after years was always willing to assist him with his valuable advice on any point of artistic criticism. mr. dodgson was singularly fortunate in his friends; whenever he was in difficulties on any technical matters, whether of religion, law, medicine, art, or whatever it might be, he always had some one especially distinguished in that branch of study whose aid he could seek as a friend. in particular, the names of canon king (now bishop of lincoln), and sir james paget occur to me; to the latter mr. dodgson addressed many letters on questions of medicine and surgery--some of them intricate enough, but never too intricate to weary the unfailing patience of the great surgeon. a note in mr. dodgson's journal, may , , describes his introduction to thackeray:-- i breakfasted this morning with fowler of lincoln to meet thackeray (the author), who delivered his lecture on george iii. in oxford last night. i was much pleased with what i saw of him; his manner is simple and unaffected; he shows no anxiety to shine in conversation, though full of fun and anecdote when drawn out. he seemed delighted with the reception he had met with last night: the undergraduates seem to have behaved with most unusual moderation. the next few years of his life passed quietly, and without any unusual events to break the monotony of college routine. he spent his mornings in the lecture-rooms, his afternoons in the country or on the river--he was very fond of boating--and his evenings in his room, reading and preparing for the next day's work. but in spite of all this outward calm of life, his mind was very much exercised on the subject of taking holy orders. not only was this step necessary if he wished to retain his studentship, but also he felt that it would give him much more influence among the undergraduates, and thus increase his power of doing good. on the other hand, he was not prepared to live the life of almost puritanical strictness which was then considered essential for a clergyman, and he saw that the impediment of speech from which he suffered would greatly interfere with the proper performance of his clerical duties. [illustration: the bishop of lincoln. _from a photograph by lewis carroll_] the bishop of oxford, dr. wilberforce, had expressed the opinion that the "resolution to attend theatres or operas was an absolute disqualification for holy orders," which discouraged him very much, until it transpired that this statement was only meant to refer to the parochial clergy. he discussed the matter with dr. pusey, and with dr. liddon. the latter said that "he thought a deacon might lawfully, if he found himself unfit for the work, abstain from direct ministerial duty." and so, with many qualms about his own unworthiness, he at last decided to prepare definitely for ordination. on december , , he was ordained deacon by the bishop of oxford. he never proceeded to priest's orders, partly, i think, because he felt that if he were to do so it would be his duty to undertake regular parochial work, and partly on account of his stammering. he used, however, to preach not unfrequently, and his sermons were always delightful to listen to, his extreme earnestness being evident in every word. [illustration: bishop wilberforce. _from a photograph by lewis carroll_.] "he knew exactly what he wished to say" (i am quoting from an article in _the guardian_), "and completely forgot his audience in his anxiety to explain his point clearly. he thought of the subject only, and the words came of themselves. looking straight in front of him he saw, as it were, his argument mapped out in the form of a diagram, and he set to work to prove it point by point, under its separate heads, and then summed up the whole." one sermon which he preached in the university church, on eternal punishment, is not likely to be soon forgotten by those who heard it. i, unfortunately, was not of that number, but i can well imagine how his clear-cut features would light up as he dwelt lovingly upon the mercy of that being whose charity far exceeds "the measure of man's mind." it is hardly necessary to say that he himself did not believe in eternal punishment, or any other scholastic doctrine that contravenes the love of god. he disliked being complimented on his sermons, but he liked to be told of any good effects that his words had had upon any member of the congregation. "thank you for telling me that fact about my sermon," he wrote to one of his sisters, who told him of some such good fruit that one of his addresses had borne. "i have once or twice had such information volunteered; and it is a _great_ comfort--and a kind of thing that is _really_ good for one to know. it is _not_ good to be told (and i never wish to be told), 'your sermon was so _beautiful_.' we shall not be concerned to know, in the great day, whether we have preached beautiful sermons, but whether they were preached with the one object of serving god." he was always ready and willing to preach at the special service for college servants, which used to be held at christ church every sunday evening; but best of all he loved to preach to children. some of his last sermons were delivered at christ church, eastbourne (the church he regularly attended during the long vacation), to a congregation of children. on those occasions he told them an allegory--_victor and arnion,_ which he intended to publish in course of time--putting all his heart into the work, and speaking with such deep feeling that at times he was almost unable to control his emotion as he told them of the love and compassion of the good shepherd. i have dwelt at some length on this side of his life, for it is, i am sure, almost ignored in the popular estimate of him. he was essentially a religious man in the best sense of the term, and without any of that morbid sentimentality which is too often associated with the word; and while his religion consecrated his talents, and raised him to a height which without it he could never have reached, the example of such a man as he was, so brilliant, so witty, so successful, and yet so full of faith, consecrates the very conception of religion, and makes it yet more beautiful. on april , , he paid another visit to tennyson, this time at farringford. after dinner we retired for about an hour to the smoking-room, where i saw the proof-sheets of the "king's idylls," but he would not let me read them. he walked through the garden with me when i left, and made me remark an effect produced on the thin white clouds by the moon shining through, which i had not noticed--a ring of golden light at some distance off the moon, with an interval of white between--this, he says, he has alluded to in one of his early poems ("margaret," vol. i.), "the tender amber." i asked his opinion of sydney dobell--he agrees with me in liking "grass from the battlefield," and thinks him a writer of genius and imagination, but extravagant. on another occasion he showed the poet a photograph which he had taken of miss alice liddell as a beggar-child, and which tennyson said was the most beautiful photograph he had ever seen. [illustration: alice liddell as beggar-child. _from a photograph by lewis carroll_.] tennyson told us he had often dreamed long passages of poetry, and believed them to be good at the time, though he could never remember them after waking, except four lines which he dreamed at ten years old:-- may a cock sparrow write to a barrow? i hope you'll excuse my infantile muse; --which, as an unpublished fragment of the poet laureate, may be thought interesting, but not affording much promise of his after powers. he also told us he once dreamed an enormously long poem about fairies, which began with very long lines that gradually got shorter, and ended with fifty or sixty lines of two syllables each! on october , , the prince of wales came into residence at christ church. the dean met him at the station, and all the dons assembled in tom quadrangle to welcome him. mr. dodgson, as usual, had an eye to a photograph, in which hope, however, he was doomed to disappointment. his royal highness was tired of having his picture taken. during his early college life he used often to spend a few days at hastings, with his mother's sisters, the misses lutwidge. in a letter written from their house to his sister mary, and dated april , , he gives an account of a lecture he had just heard:-- i am just returned from a series of dissolving views on the arctic regions, and, while the information there received is still fresh in my mind, i will try to give you some of it. in the first place, you may not know that one of the objects of the arctic expeditions was to discover "the intensity of the magnetic needle." he [the lecturer] did not tell us, however, whether they had succeeded in discovering it, or whether that rather obscure question is still doubtful. one of the explorers, baffin, "_though_ he did not suffer all the hardships the others did, _yet_ he came to an untimely end (of course one would think in the arctic regions), _for instance_ (what follows being, i suppose, one of the untimely ends he came to), being engaged in a war of the portuguese against the prussians, while measuring the ground in front of a fortification, a cannon-ball came against him, with the force with which cannon-balls in that day _did_ come, and killed him dead on the spot." how many instances of this kind would you demand to prove that he did come to an untimely end? one of the ships was laid up three years in the ice, during which time, he told us, "summer came and went frequently." this, i think, was the most remarkable phenomenon he mentioned in the whole lecture, and gave _me_ quite a new idea of those regions. on tuesday i went to a concert at st. leonard's. on the front seat sat a youth about twelve years of age, of whom the enclosed is a tolerably accurate sketch. he really was, i think, the ugliest boy i ever saw. i wish i could get an opportunity of photographing him. [illustration: sketch from st. leonard's concert-room.] the following note occurs in his journal for may th:-- a christ church man, named wilmot, who is just returned from the west indies, dined in hall. he told us some curious things about the insects in south america--one that he had himself seen was a spider charming a cockroach with flashes of light; they were both on the wall, the spider about a yard the highest, and the light was like a glow-worm, only that it came by flashes and did not shine continuously; the cockroach gradually crawled up to it, and allowed itself to be taken and killed. a few months afterwards, when in town and visiting mr. munroe's studio, he found there two of the children of mr. george macdonald, whose acquaintance he had already made: "they were a girl and boy, about seven and six years old--i claimed their acquaintance, and began at once proving to the boy, greville, that he had better take the opportunity of having his head changed for a marble one. the effect was that in about two minutes they had entirely forgotten that i was a total stranger, and were earnestly arguing the question as if we were old acquaintances." mr. dodgson urged that a marble head would not have to be brushed and combed. at this the boy turned to his sister with an air of great relief, saying, "do you hear _that_, mary? it needn't be combed!" and the narrator adds, "i have no doubt combing, with his great head of long hair, like hallam tennyson's, was _the_ misery of his life. his final argument was that a marble head couldn't speak, and as i couldn't convince either that he would be all the better for that, i gave in." [illustration: george macdonald and his daughter lily. _from a photograph by lewis carroll._] in november he gave a lecture at a meeting of the ashmolean society on "where does the day begin?" the problem, which was one he was very fond of propounding, may be thus stated: if a man could travel round the world so fast that the sun would be always directly above his head, and if he were to start travelling at midday on tuesday, then in twenty-four hours he would return to his original point of departure, and would find that the day was now called wednesday--at what point of his journey would the day change its name? the difficulty of answering this apparently simple question has cast a gloom over many a pleasant party. on december th he wrote in his diary:-- visit of the queen to oxford, to the great surprise of everybody, as it had been kept a secret up to the time. she arrived in christ church about twelve, and came into hall with the dean, where the collections were still going on, about a dozen men being in hall. the party consisted of the queen, prince albert, princess alice and her intended husband, the prince of hesse-darmstadt, the prince of wales, prince alfred, and suite. they remained a minute or two looking at the pictures, and the sub-dean was presented: they then visited the cathedral and library. evening entertainment at the deanery, _tableaux vivants_. i went a little after half-past eight, and found a great party assembled--the prince had not yet come. he arrived before nine, and i found an opportunity of reminding general bruce of his promise to introduce me to the prince, which he did at the next break in the conversation h.r.h. was holding with mrs. fellowes. he shook hands very graciously, and i began with a sort of apology for having been so importunate about the photograph. he said something of the weather being against it, and i asked if the americans had victimised him much as a sitter; he said they had, but he did not think they had succeeded well, and i told him of the new american process of taking twelve thousand photographs in an hour. edith liddell coming by at the moment, i remarked on the beautiful _tableau_ which the children might make: he assented, and also said, in answer to my question, that he had seen and admired my photographs of them. i then said that i hoped, as i had missed the photograph, he would at least give me his autograph in my album, which he promised to do. thinking i had better bring the talk to an end, i concluded by saying that, if he would like copies of any of my photographs, i should feel honoured by his accepting them; he thanked me for this, and i then drew back, as he did not seem inclined to pursue the conversation. a few days afterwards the prince gave him his autograph, and also chose a dozen or so of his photograph (sic). [illustration: mrs. rossetti and her children dante gabriel, christina, and william. _from a photograph by lewis carroll._] * * * * * chapter iii ( - ) jowett--index to "in memoriam"--the tennysons--the beginning of "alice"--tenniel--artistic friends--"alice's adventures in wonderland"--"bruno's revenge"--tour with dr. liddon--cologne--berlin architecture--the "majesty of justice"--peterhof--moscow--a russian wedding--nijni--the troitska monastery--"hieroglyphic" writing--giessen. it is my aim in this memoir to let mr. dodgson tell his own story as much as possible. in order to effect this object i have drawn largely upon his diary and correspondence. very few men have left behind them such copious information about their lives as he has; unfortunately it is not equally copious throughout, and this fact must be my apology for the somewhat haphazard and disconnected way in which parts of this book are written. that it is the best which, under the circumstances, i have been able to do needs, i hope, no saying, but the circumstances have at times been too strong for me. though in later years mr. dodgson almost gave up the habit of dining out, at this time of his life he used to do it pretty frequently, and several of the notes in his diary refer to after-dinner and common room stories. the two following extracts will show the sort of facts he recorded:-- _january , ._--mr. grey (canon) came to dine and stay the night. he told me a curious old custom of millers, that they place the sails of the mill as a saint andrew's cross when work is entirely suspended, thus x, but in an upright cross, thus +, if they are just going to resume work. he also mentioned that he was at school with dr. tennyson (father of the poet), and was a great favourite of his. he remembers that tennyson used to do his school-translations in rhyme. _may th._--met in common room rev. c.f. knight, and the hon'ble. f.j. parker, both of boston, u.s. the former gave an amusing account of having seen oliver wendell holmes in a fishmonger's, lecturing _extempore_ on the head of a freshly killed turtle, whose eyes and jaws still showed muscular action: the lecture of course being all "cram," but accepted as sober earnest by the mob outside. old oxford men will remember the controversies that raged from about onwards over the opinions of the late dr. jowett. in my time the name "jowett" only represented the brilliant translator of plato, and the deservedly loved master of balliol, whose sermons in the little college chapel were often attended by other than balliol men, and whose reputation for learning was expressed in the well-known verse of "the masque of balliol":-- first come i, my name is jowett. there's no knowledge but i know it; i am master of this college; what i don't know isn't knowledge. but in he was anything but universally popular, and i am afraid that mr. dodgson, nothing if not a staunch conservative, sided with the majority against him. thus he wrote in his diary:-- _november th._--promulgation, in congregation, of the new statute to endow jowett. the speaking took up the whole afternoon, and the two points at issue, the endowing a _regius_ professorship, and the countenancing jowett's theological opinions, got so inextricably mixed up that i rose to beg that they might be kept separate. once on my feet, i said more than i at first meant, and defied them ever to tire out the opposition by perpetually bringing the question on (_mem_.: if i ever speak again i will try to say no more than i had resolved before rising). this was my first speech in congregation. at the beginning of an "index to in memoriam," compiled by mr. dodgson and his sisters, was published by moxon. tennyson had given his consent, and the little book proved to be very useful to his admirers. on january th morning prayer was for the first time read in english at the christ church college service. on the same day mr. dodgson moved over into new rooms, as the part of the college where he had formerly lived (chaplain's quadrangle) was to be pulled down. during the easter vacation he paid another visit to the tennysons, which he describes as follows:-- after luncheon i went to the tennysons, and got hallam and lionel to sign their names in my album. also i made a bargain with lionel, that he was to give me some ms. of his verses, and i was to send him some of mine. it was a very difficult bargain to make; i almost despaired of it at first, he put in so many conditions--first, i was to play a game of chess with him; this, with much difficulty, was reduced to twelve moves on each side; but this made little difference, as i check-mated him at the sixth move. second, he was to be allowed to give me one blow on the head with a mallet (this he at last consented to give up). i forget if there were others, but it ended in my getting the verses, for which i have written out "the lonely moor" for him. mr. dodgson took a great interest in occult phenomena, and was for some time an enthusiastic member of the "psychical society." it was his interest in ghosts that led to his meeting with the artist mr. heaphy, who had painted a picture of a ghost which he himself had seen. i quote the following from a letter to his sister mary:-- during my last visit to town, i paid a very interesting visit to a new artist, mr. heaphy. do you remember that curious story of a ghost lady (in _household words_ or _all the year round_), who sat to an artist for her picture; it was called "mr. h.'s story," and he was the writer.... he received me most kindly, and we had a very interesting talk about the ghost, which certainly is one of the most curious and inexplicable stories i ever heard. he showed me her picture (life size), and she must have been very lovely, if it is like her (or like it, which ever is the correct pronoun).... mr. heaphy showed me a most interesting collection of drawings he has made abroad; he has been about, hunting up the earliest and most authentic pictures of our saviour, some merely outlines, some coloured pictures. they agree wonderfully in the character of the face, and one, he says, there is no doubt was done before the year .... i feel sure from his tone that he is doing this in a religious spirit, and not merely as an artist. on july , , there is a very important entry: "i made an expedition _up_ the river to godstow with the three liddells; we had tea on the bank there, and did not reach christ church till half-past eight." [illustration: lorina, alice, and edith liddell. _from a photograph by lewis carroll_.] on the opposite page he added, somewhat later, "on which occasion i told them the fairy-tale of 'alice's adventures underground,' which i undertook to write out for alice." these words need to be supplemented by the verses with which he prefaced the "wonderland":-- all in the golden afternoon full leisurely we glide; for both our oars, with little skill, by little arms are plied, while little hands make vain pretence our wanderings to guide. ah, cruel three! in such an hour, beneath such dreamy weather, to beg a tale of breath too weak to stir the tiniest feather! yet what can one poor voice avail against three tongues together? imperious prima flashes forth her edict "to begin it"-- in gentler tones secunda hopes "there will be nonsense in it!" while tertia interrupts the tale not _more_ than once a minute. anon, to sudden silence won, in fancy they pursue the dream-child moving through a land of wonders wild and new, in friendly chat with bird or beast-- and half believe it true. and ever, as the story drained the wells of fancy dry, and faintly strove that weary one to put the subject by, "the rest next time"--"it _is_ next time!" the happy voices cry. thus grew the tale of wonderland: thus slowly, one by one, its quaint events were hammered out-- and now the tale is done, and home we steer, a merry crew, beneath the setting sun. "alice" herself (mrs. reginald hargreaves) has given an account of the scene, from which what follows is quoted:-- most of mr. dodgson's stories were told to us on river expeditions to nuneham or godstow, near oxford. my eldest sister, now mrs. skene, was "prima," i was "secunda," and "tertia" was my sister edith. i believe the beginning of "alice" was told one summer afternoon when the sun was so burning that we had landed in the meadows down the river, deserting the boat to take refuge in the only bit of shade to be found, which was under a new-made hayrick. here from all three came the old petition of "tell us a story," and so began the ever-delightful tale. sometimes to tease us--and perhaps being really tired--mr. dodgson would stop suddenly and say, "and that's all till next time." "ah, but it is next time," would be the exclamation from all three; and after some persuasion the story would start afresh. another day, perhaps, the story would begin in the boat, and mr. dodgson, in the middle of telling a thrilling adventure, would pretend to go fast asleep, to our great dismay. "alice's adventures underground" was the original name of the story; later on it became "alice's hour in elfland." it was not until june , , that he finally decided upon "alice's adventures in wonderland." the illustrating of the manuscript book gave him some trouble. he had to borrow a "natural history" from the deanery to learn the correct shapes of some of the strange animals with which alice conversed; the mock turtle he must have evolved out of his inner consciousness, for it is, i think, a species unknown to naturalists. he was lucky enough during the course of the year to see a ceremony which is denied to most oxford men. when degrees are given, any tradesman who has been unable to get his due from an undergraduate about to be made a bachelor of arts is allowed, by custom, to pluck the proctor's gown as he passes, and then to make his complaint. this law is more honoured in the breach than in the observance; but, on the occasion of this visit of mr. dodgson's to convocation, the proctor's gown was actually plucked--on account of an unfortunate man who had gone through the bankruptcy court. when he promised to write out "alice" for miss liddell he had no idea of publication; but his friend, mr. george macdonald, to whom he had shown the story, persuaded him to submit it to a publisher. messrs. macmillan agreed to produce it, and as mr. dodgson had not sufficient faith in his own artistic powers to venture to allow his illustrations to appear, it was necessary to find some artist who would undertake the work. by the advice of tom taylor he approached mr. tenniel, who was fortunately well disposed, and on april , , the final arrangements were made. [illustration: george macdonald. _from a photograph by lewis carroll_.] the following interesting account of a meeting with mr. dodgson is from the pen of mrs. bennie, wife of the rector of glenfield, near leicester:-- some little time after the publication of "alice's adventures" we went for our summer holiday to whitby. we were visiting friends, and my brother and sister went to the hotel. they soon after asked us to dine with them there at the _table d'hôte._ i had on one side of me a gentleman whom i did not know, but as i had spent a good deal of time travelling in foreign countries, i always, at once, speak to any one i am placed next. i found on this occasion i had a very agreeable neighbour, and we seemed to be much interested in the same books, and politics also were touched on. after dinner my sister and brother rather took me to task for talking so much to a complete stranger. i said. "but it was quite a treat to talk to him and to hear him talk. of one thing i am quite sure, he is a genius." my brother and sister, who had not heard him speak, again laughed at me, and said, "you are far too easily pleased." i, however, maintained my point, and said what great delight his conversation had given me, and how remarkably clever it had been. next morning nurse took out our two little twin daughters in front of the sea. i went out a short time afterwards, looked for them, and found them seated with my friend of the _table d'hôte_ between them, and they were listening to him, open-mouthed, and in the greatest state of enjoyment, with his knee covered with minute toys. i, seeing their great delight, motioned to him to go on; this he did for some time. a most charming story he told them about sea-urchins and ammonites. when it was over, i said, "you must be the author of 'alice's adventures.'" he laughed, but looked astonished, and said, "my dear madam, my name is dodgson, and 'alice's adventures' was written by lewis carroll." i replied, "then you must have borrowed the name, for only he could have told a story as you have just done." after a little sparring he admitted the fact, and i went home and proudly told my sister and brother how my genius had turned out a greater one than i expected. they assured me i must be mistaken, and that, as i had suggested it to him, he had taken advantage of the idea, and said he was what i wanted him to be. a few days after some friends came to whitby who knew his aunts, and confirmed the truth of his statement, and thus i made the acquaintance of one whose friendship has been the source of great pleasure for nearly thirty years. he has most generously sent us all his books, with kind inscriptions, to "minnie and doe," whom he photographed, but would not take canon bennie or me; he said he never took portraits of people of more than seventeen years of age until they were seventy. he visited us, and we often met him at eastbourne, and his death was indeed a great loss after so many happy years of friendship with one we so greatly admired and loved. he spent a part of the long vacation at freshwater, taking great interest in the children who, for him, were the chief attraction of the seaside. every morning four little children dressed in yellow go by from the front down to the beach: they go by in a state of great excitement, brandishing wooden spades, and making strange noises; from that moment they disappear entirely--they are never to be seen _on_ the beach. the only theory i can form is, that they all tumble into a hole somewhere, and continue excavating therein during the day: however that may be, i have once or twice come across them returning at night, in exactly the same state of excitement, and seemingly in quite as great a hurry to get home as they were before to get out. the evening noises they make sound to me very much like the morning noises, but i suppose they are different to them, and contain an account of the day's achievements. his enthusiasm for photography, and his keen appreciation of the beautiful, made him prefer the society of artists to that of any other class of people. he knew the rossettis intimately, and his diary shows him to have been acquainted with millais, holman hunt, sant, westmacott, val prinsep, watts, and a host of others. arthur hughes painted a charming picture to his order ("the lady with the lilacs") which used to hang in his rooms at christ church. the andersons were great friends of his, mrs. anderson being one of his favourite child-painters. those who have visited him at oxford will remember a beautiful girl's head, painted by her from a rough sketch she had once made in a railway carriage of a child who happened to be sitting opposite her. [illustration: j. sant. _from a photograph by lewis carroll_.] his own drawings were in no way remarkable. ruskin, whose advice he took on his artistic capabilities, told him that he had not enough talent to make it worth his while to devote much time to sketching, but every one who saw his photographs admired them. considering the difficulties of the "wet process," and the fact that he had a conscientious horror of "touching up" his negatives, the pictures he produced are quite wonderful. some of them were shown to the queen, who said that she admired them very much, and that they were "such as the prince would have appreciated very highly, and taken much pleasure in." [illustration: holman hunt. _from a photograph by lewis carroll_.] on july , , exactly three years after the memorable row up the river, miss alice liddell received the first presentation copy of "alice's adventures in wonderland": the second was sent to princess beatrice. the first edition, which consisted of two thousand copies, was condemned by both author and illustrator, for the pictures did not come out well. all purchasers were accordingly asked to return their copies, and to send their names and addresses; a new edition was prepared, and distributed to those who had sent back their old copies, which the author gave away to various homes and hospitals. the substituted edition was a complete success, "a perfect piece of artistic printing," as mr. dodgson called it. he hardly dared to hope that more than two thousand copies would be sold, and anticipated a considerable loss over the book. his surprise was great when edition after edition was demanded, and when he found that "alice," far from being a monetary failure, was bringing him in a very considerable income every year. [illustration: sir john millais. _from a photograph by lewis carroll_] a rough comparison between "alice's adventures underground" and the book in its completed form, shows how slight were the alterations that lewis carroll thought it necessary to make. the "wonderland" is somewhat longer, but the general plan of the book, and the simplicity of diction, which is one of its principal charms, are unchanged. his memory was so good that i believe the story as he wrote it down was almost word for word the same that he had told in the boat. the whole idea came like an inspiration into his mind, and that sort of inspiration does not often come more than once in a lifetime. nothing which he wrote afterwards had anything like the same amount of freshness, of wit, of real genius. the "looking-glass" most closely approached it in these qualities, but then it was only the following out of the same idea. the most ingenuous comparison of the two books i have seen was the answer of a little girl whom lewis carroll had asked if she had read them: "oh yes, i've read both of them, and i think," (this more slowly and thoughtfully) "i think 'through the looking-glass' is more stupid than 'alice's adventures.' don't you think so?" the critics were loud in their praises of "alice"; there was hardly a dissentient voice among them, and the reception which the public gave the book justified their opinion. so recently as july, , the _pall mall gazette_ conducted an inquiry into the popularity of children's books. "the verdict is so natural that it will surprise no normal person. the winner is 'alice in wonderland'; 'through the looking-glass' is in the twenty, but much lower down." "alice" has been translated into french, german, italian, and dutch, while one poem, "father william," has even been turned into arabic. several plays have been based upon it; lectures have been given, illustrated by magic-lantern slides of tenniel's pictures, which have also adorned wall-papers and biscuit-boxes. mr. dodgson himself designed a very ingenious "wonderland" stamp-case; there has been an "alice" birthday-book; at schools, children have been taught to read out of "alice," while the german edition, shortened and simplified for the purpose, has also been used as a lesson-book. with the exception of shakespeare's plays, very few, if any, books are so frequently quoted in the daily press as the two "alices." in mr. dodgson was introduced to miss charlotte m. yonge, whose novels had long delighted him. "it was a pleasure i had long hoped for," he says, "and i was very much pleased with her cheerful and easy manners--the sort of person one knows in a few minutes as well as many in many years." [illustration: c. m. yonge. _from a photograph by lewis carroll_.] in he contributed a story to _aunt judy's magazine_ called "bruno's revenge," the charming little idyll out of which "sylvie and bruno" grew. the creation of bruno was the only act of homage lewis carroll ever paid to boy-nature, for which, as a rule, he professed an aversion almost amounting to terror. nevertheless, on the few occasions on which i have seen him in the company of boys, he seemed to be thoroughly at his ease, telling them stories and showing them puzzles. i give an extract from mrs. gatty's letter, acknowledging the receipt of "bruno's revenge" for her magazine:-- i need hardly tell you that the story is _delicious_. it is beautiful and fantastic and childlike, and i cannot sufficiently thank you. i am so _proud_ for _aunt judy_ that you have honoured _her_ by sending it here, rather than to the _cornhill_, or one of the grander magazines. to-morrow i shall send the manuscript to london probably; to-day i keep it to enjoy a little further, and that the young ladies may do so too. one word more. make this one of a series. you may have great mathematical abilities, but so have hundreds of others. this talent is peculiarly your own, and as an englishman you are almost unique in possessing it. if you covet fame, therefore, it will be (i think) gained by this. some of the touches are so exquisite, one would have thought nothing short of intercourse with fairies could have put them into your head. somewhere about this time he was invited to witness a rehearsal of a children's play at a london theatre. as he sat in the wings, chatting to the manager, a little four-year-old girl, one of the performers, climbed up on his knee, and began talking to him. she was very anxious to be allowed to play the principal part (mrs. mite), which had been assigned to some other child. "i wish i might act mrs. mite," she said; "i know all her part, and i'd get an _encore_ for every word." during the year he published his book on "determinants." to those accustomed to regard mathematics as the driest of dry subjects, and mathematicians as necessarily devoid of humour, it seems scarcely credible that "an elementary treatise on determinants," and "alice in wonderland" were written by the same author, and it came quite as a revelation to the undergraduate who heard for the first time that mr. dodgson of christ church and lewis carroll were identical. the book in question, admirable as it is in many ways, has not commanded a large sale. the nature of the subject would be against it, as most students whose aim is to get as good a place as possible in the class lists cannot afford the luxury of a separate work, and have to be content with the few chapters devoted to "determinants" in works on higher algebra or the theory of equations, supplemented by references to mr. dodgson's work which can be found in the college libraries. the general acceptance of the book would be rather restricted by the employment of new words and symbols, which, as the author himself felt, "are always a most unwelcome addition to a science already burdened with an enormous vocabulary." but the work itself is largely original, and its arrangement and style are, perhaps, as attractive as the nature of the subject will allow. such a book as this has little interest for the general reader, yet, amongst the leisured few who are able to read mathematics for their own sake, the treatise has found warm admirers. in the summer vacation of he went for a tour on the continent, accompanied by dr. liddon, whom i have already mentioned as having been one of his most intimate friends at this time. during the whole of this tour mr. dodgson kept a diary, more with the idea that it would help him afterwards to remember what he had seen than with any notion of publication. however, in later years it did occur to him that others might be interested in his impressions and experiences, though he never actually took any steps towards putting them before the public. perhaps he was wise, for a traveller's diary always contains much information that can be obtained just as well from any guide-book. in the extracts which i reproduce here, i hope that i have not retained anything which comes under that category. [illustration: dr. liddon. _from a photograph by lewis carroll_.] _july th_.--the sultan and i arrived in london almost at the same time, but in different quarters--_my_ point of entry being paddington, and _his_ charing cross. i must admit that the crowd was greatest at the latter place. mr. dodgson and dr. liddon met at dover, and passed the night at one of the hotels there:-- _july th_.--we breakfasted, as agreed, at eight, or at least we then sat down and nibbled bread and butter till such time as the chops should be done, which great event took place about half past. we tried pathetic appeals to the wandering waiters, who told us, "they are coming, sir," in a soothing tone, and we tried stern remonstrance, and they then said, "they are coming, sir," in a more injured tone; and after all such appeals they retired into their dens, and hid themselves behind side-boards and dish-covers, and still the chops came not. we agreed that of all virtues a waiter can display, that of a retiring disposition is quite the least desirable.... the pen refuses to describe the sufferings of some of the passengers during our smooth trip of ninety minutes: my own sensations were those of extreme surprise, and a little indignation, at there being no other sensations--it was not for _that_ i paid my money.... we landed at calais in the usual swarm of friendly natives, offering services and advice of all kinds; to all such remarks i returned one simple answer, _non!_ it was probably not strictly applicable in all cases, but it answered the purpose of getting rid of them; one by one they left me, echoing the _non_! in various tones, but all expressive of disgust. at cologne began that feast of beautiful things which his artistic temperament fitted him so well to enjoy. though the churches he visited and the ceremonies he witnessed belonged to a religious system widely different from his own, the largeness and generosity of his mind always led him to insist upon that substratum of true devotion--to use a favourite word of his--which underlies all forms of christianity. we spent an hour in the cathedral, which i will not attempt to describe further than by saying it was the most beautiful of all churches i have ever seen or can imagine. if one could imagine the spirit of devotion embodied in any material form, it would be in such a building. in spite of all the wealth of words that has been expended upon german art, he found something new to say on this most fertile subject:-- the amount of art lavished on the whole region of potsdam is marvellous; some of the tops of the palaces were like forests of statues, and they were all over the gardens, set on pedestals. in fact, the two principles of berlin architecture appear to me to be these. on the house-tops, wherever there is a convenient place, put up the figure of a man; he is best placed standing on one leg. wherever there is room on the ground, put either a circular group of busts on pedestals, in consultation, all looking inwards--or else the colossal figure of a man killing, about to kill, or having killed (the present tense is preferred) a beast; the more pricks the beast has, the better--in fact a dragon is the correct thing, but if that is beyond the artist, he may content himself with a lion or a pig. the beast-killing principle has been carried out everywhere with a relentless monotony, which makes some parts of berlin look like a fossil slaughter-house. he never missed an opportunity of studying the foreign drama, which was most praiseworthy, as he knew very little german and not a word of russ:-- at the hotel [at danzig] was a green parrot on a stand; we addressed it as "pretty poll," and it put its head on one side and thought about it, but wouldn't commit itself to any statement. the waiter came up to inform us of the reason of its silence: "er spricht nicht englisch; er spricht nicht deutsch." it appeared that the unfortunate bird could speak nothing but mexican! not knowing a word of that language, we could only pity it. _july rd._--we strolled about and bought a few photographs, and at . left for königsberg. on our way to the station we came across the grandest instance of the "majesty of justice" that i have ever witnessed. a little boy was being taken to the magistrate, or to prison (probably for picking a pocket). the achievement of this feat had been entrusted to two soldiers in full uniform, who were solemnly marching, one in front of the poor little urchin and one behind, with bayonets fixed, of course, to be ready to charge in case he should attempt an escape. _july th._--in the evening i visited the theatre at königsberg, which was fairly good in every way, and very good in the singing and some of the acting. the play was "anno ," but i could only catch a few words here and there, so have very little idea of the plot. one of the characters was a correspondent of an english newspaper. this singular being came on in the midst of a soldiers' bivouac before sadowa, dressed very nearly in white--a very long frock-coat, and a tall hat on the back of his head, both nearly white. he said "morning" as a general remark, when he first came on, but afterwards talked what i suppose was broken german. he appeared to be regarded as a butt by the soldiers, and ended his career by falling into a drum. from königsberg the travellers went on to st. petersburg, where they stayed several days, exploring the wonderful city and its environs:-- there is a fine equestrian statue of peter the great near the admiralty. the lower part is not a pedestal, but left shapeless and rough like a real rock. the horse is rearing, and has a serpent coiled about its hind feet, on which, i think, it is treading. if this had been put up in berlin, peter would no doubt have been actively engaged in killing the monster, but here he takes no notice of it; in fact, the killing theory is not recognised. we found two colossal figures of lions, which are so painfully mild that each of them is rolling a great ball about like a kitten. _aug. st_.--about half-past ten mr. merrilies called for us, and with really remarkable kindness gave up his day to taking us down to peterhof, a distance of about twenty miles, and showing us over the place. we went by steamer down the tideless, saltless gulf of finland; the first peculiarity extends through the baltic, and the second through a great part of it. the piece we crossed, some fifteen miles from shore to shore, is very shallow, in many parts only six or eight feet deep, and every winter it is entirely frozen over with ice two feet thick, and when this is covered with snow it forms a secure plain, which is regularly used for travelling on, though the immense distance, without means of food or shelter, is dangerous for poorly clad foot passengers. mr. merrilies told us of a friend of his who, in crossing last winter, passed the bodies of eight people who had been frozen. we had a good view, on our way, of the coast of finland, and of kronstadt. when we landed at peterhof, we found mr. muir's carriage waiting for us, and with its assistance, getting out every now and then to walk through portions where it could not go, we went over the grounds of two imperial palaces, including many little summer-houses, each of which would make a very good residence in itself, as, though small, they were fitted up and adorned in every way that taste could suggest or wealth achieve. for varied beauty and perfect combination of nature and art, i think the gardens eclipse those of sans souci. at every corner, or end of an avenue or path, where a piece of statuary could be introduced with effect, there one was sure to find one, in bronze or in white marble; many of the latter had a sort of circular niche built behind, with a blue background to throw the figure into relief. here we found a series of shelving ledges made of stone, with a sheet of water gliding down over them; here a long path, stretching down slopes and flights of steps, and arched over all the way with trellises and creepers; here a huge boulder, hewn, just as it lay, into the shape of a gigantic head and face, with mild, sphinx-like eyes, as if some buried titan were struggling to free himself; here a fountain, so artfully formed of pipes set in circles, each set shooting the water higher than those outside, as to form a solid pyramid of glittering spray; here a lawn, seen through a break in the woods below us, with threads of scarlet geraniums running over it, and looking in the distance like a huge branch of coral; and here and there long avenues of trees, lying in all directions, sometimes three or four together side by side, and sometimes radiating like a star, and stretching away into the distance till the eye was almost weary of following them. all this will rather serve to remind me, than to convey any idea, of what we saw. but the beauties of peterhof were quite eclipsed by the oriental splendours of moscow, which naturally made a great impression upon a mind accustomed to the cold sublimity of gothic architecture at oxford. we gave five or six hours to a stroll through this wonderful city, a city of white houses and green roofs, of conical towers that rise one out of another like a foreshortened telescope; of bulging gilded domes, in which you see, as in a looking-glass, distorted pictures of the city; of churches which look, outside, like bunches of variegated cactus (some branches crowned with green prickly buds, others with blue, and others with red and white) and which, inside, are hung all round with _eikons_ and lamps, and lined with illuminated pictures up to the very roof; and, finally, of pavement that goes up and down like a ploughed field, and _drojky_-drivers who insist on being paid thirty per cent. extra to-day, "because it is the empress's birthday."... _aug. th._--after dinner we went by arrangement to mr. penny, and accompanied him to see a russian wedding. it was a most interesting ceremony. there was a large choir, from the cathedral, who sang a long and beautiful anthem before the service began; and the deacon (from the church of the assumption) delivered several recitative portions of the service in the most magnificent bass voice i ever heard, rising gradually (i should say by less than half a note at a time if that is possible), and increasing in volume of sound as he rose in the scale, until his final note rang through the building like a chorus of many voices. i could not have conceived that one voice could have produced such an effect. one part of the ceremony, the crowning the married couple, was very nearly grotesque. two gorgeous golden crowns were brought in, which the officiating priest first waved before them, and then placed on their heads--or rather the unhappy bridegroom had to wear _his_, but the bride, having prudently arranged her hair in a rather complicated manner with a lace veil, could not have hers put on, but had it held above her by a friend. the bridegroom, in plain evening dress, crowned like a king, holding a candle, and with a face of resigned misery, would have been pitiable if he had not been so ludicrous. when the people had gone, we were invited by the priests to see the east end of the church, behind the golden gates, and were finally dismissed with a hearty shake of the hand and the "kiss of peace," of which even i, though in lay costume, came in for a share. one of the objects of the tour was to see the fair at nijni novgorod, and here the travellers arrived on august th, after a miserable railway journey. owing to the breaking down of a bridge, the unfortunate passengers had been compelled to walk a mile through drenching rain. we went to the smernovaya (or some such name) hotel, a truly villainous place, though no doubt the best in the town. the feeding was very good, and everything else very bad. it was some consolation to find that as we sat at dinner we furnished a subject of the liveliest interest to six or seven waiters, all dressed in white tunics, belted at the waist, and white trousers, who ranged themselves in a row and gazed in a quite absorbed way at the collection of strange animals that were feeding before them. now and then a twinge of conscience would seize them that they were, after all, not fulfilling the great object of life as waiters, and on these occasions they would all hurry to the end of the room, and refer to a great drawer which seemed to contain nothing but spoons and corks. when we asked for anything, they first looked at each other in an alarmed way; then, when they had ascertained which understood the order best, they all followed his example, which always was to refer to the big drawer. we spent most of the afternoon wandering through the fair, and buying _eikons_, &c. it was a wonderful place. besides there being distinct quarters for the persians, the chinese, and others, we were constantly meeting strange beings with unwholesome complexions and unheard-of costumes. the persians, with their gentle, intelligent faces, the long eyes set wide apart, the black hair, and yellow-brown skin, crowned with a black woollen fez something like a grenadier, were about the most picturesque we met. but all the novelties of the day were thrown into the shade by our adventure at sunset, when we came upon the tartar mosque (the only one in nijni) exactly as one of the officials came out on the roof to utter the muezzin cry, or call to prayers. even if it had been in no way singular in itself, it would have been deeply interesting from its novelty and uniqueness, but the cry itself was quite unlike anything i have ever heard before. the beginning of each sentence was uttered in a rapid monotone, and towards the end it rose gradually till it ended in a prolonged, shrill wail, which floated overhead through the still air with an indescribably sad and ghostlike effect; heard at night, it would have thrilled one like the cry of the banshee. this reminds one of the wonderful description in mr. kipling's "city of dreadful night." it is not generally known that mr. dodgson was a fervent admirer of mr. kipling's works; indeed during the last few years of his life i think he took more pleasure in his tales than in those of any other modern author. dr. liddon's fame as a preacher had reached the russian clergy, with the result that he and mr. dodgson found many doors open to them which are usually closed to travellers in russia. after their visit to nijni novgorod they returned to moscow, whence, escorted by bishop leonide, suffragan bishop of moscow, they made an expedition to the troitska monastery. _august th_.--a most interesting day. we breakfasted at half-past five, and soon after seven left by railway, in company with bishop leonide and mr. penny, for troitska monastery. we found the bishop, in spite of his limited knowledge of english, a very conversational and entertaining fellow-traveller. the service at the cathedral had already begun when we reached it, and the bishop took us in with him, through a great crowd which thronged the building, into a side room which opened into the chancel, where we remained during the service, and enjoyed the unusual privilege of seeing the clergy communicate--a ceremony for which the doors of the chancel are always shut, and the curtains drawn, so that the congregation never witness it. it was a most elaborate ceremony, full of crossings, and waving of incense before everything that was going to be used, but also clearly full of much deep devotion.... in the afternoon we went down to the archbishop's palace, and were presented to him by bishop leonide. the archbishop could only talk russian, so that the conversation between him and liddon (a most interesting one, which lasted more than an hour) was conducted in a very original fashion--the archbishop making a remark in russian, which was put into english by the bishop; liddon then answered the remark in french, and the bishop repeated his answer in russian to the archbishop. so that a conversation, entirely carried on between two people, required the use of three languages! the bishop had kindly got one of the theological students, who could talk french, to conduct us about, which he did most zealously, taking us, among other things, to see the subterranean cells of the hermits, in which some of them live for many years. we were shown the doors of two of the inhabited ones; it was a strange and not quite comfortable feeling, in a dark narrow passage where each had to carry a candle, to be shown the low narrow door of a little cellar, and to know that a human being was living within, with only a small lamp to give him light, in solitude and silence day and night. his experiences with an exorbitant _drojky_-driver at st. petersburg are worthy of record. they remind one of a story which he himself used to tell as having happened to a friend of his at oxford. the latter had driven up in a cab to tom gate, and offered the cabman the proper fare, which was, however, refused with scorn. after a long altercation he left the irate cabman to be brought to reason by the porter, a one-armed giant of prodigious strength. when he was leaving college, he stopped at the gate to ask the porter how he had managed to dispose of the cabman. "well, sir," replied that doughty champion, "i could not persuade him to go until i floored him." after a hearty breakfast i left liddon to rest and write letters, and went off shopping, &c., beginning with a call on mr. muir at no. , galerne ulitsa. i took a _drojky_ to the house, having first bargained with the driver for thirty _kopecks_; he wanted forty to begin with. when we got there we had a little scene, rather a novelty in my experience of _drojky_-driving. the driver began by saying "_sorok_" (forty) as i got out; this was a warning of the coming storm, but i took no notice of it, but quietly handed over the thirty. he received them with scorn and indignation, and holding them out in his open hand, delivered an eloquent discourse in russian, of which _sorok_ was the leading idea. a woman, who stood by with a look of amusement and curiosity, perhaps understood him. _i_ didn't, but simply held out my hand for the thirty, returned them to the purse and counted out twenty-five instead. in doing this i felt something like a man pulling the string of a shower-bath--and the effect was like it--his fury boiled over directly, and quite eclipsed all the former row. i told him in very bad russian that i had offered thirty once, but wouldn't again; but this, oddly enough, did not pacify him. mr. muir's servant told him the same thing at length, and finally mr. muir himself came out and gave him the substance of it sharply and shortly--but he failed to see it in a proper light. some people are very hard to please. when staying at a friend's house at kronstadt he wrote:-- liddon had surrendered his overcoat early in the day, and when going we found it must be recovered from the waiting-maid, who only talked russian, and as i had left the dictionary behind, and the little vocabulary did not contain _coat_, we were in some difficulty. liddon began by exhibiting his coat, with much gesticulation, including the taking it half-off. to our delight, she appeared to understand at once--left the room, and returned in a minute with--a large clothes-brush. on this liddon tried a further and more energetic demonstration; he took off his coat, and laid it at her feet, pointed downwards (to intimate that in the lower regions was the object of his desire), smiled with an expression of the joy and gratitude with which he would receive it, and put the coat on again. once more a gleam of intelligence lighted up the plain but expressive features of the young person; she was absent much longer this time, and when she returned, she brought, to our dismay, a large cushion and a pillow, and began to prepare the sofa for the nap that she now saw clearly was the thing the dumb gentleman wanted. a happy thought occurred to me, and i hastily drew a sketch representing liddon, with one coat on, receiving a second and larger one from the hands of a benignant russian peasant. the language of hieroglyphics succeeded where all other means had failed, and we returned to st. petersburg with the humiliating knowledge that our standard of civilisation was now reduced to the level of ancient nineveh. [illustration: instance of hieroglyphic writing of the date mdccclxvii--interpretation. "there is a coat here, left in the care of a russian peasant, which i should be glad to receive from him."] at warsaw they made a short stay, putting up at the hotel d'angleterre:-- our passage is inhabited by a tall and very friendly grey-hound, who walks in whenever the door is opened for a second or two, and who for some time threatened to make the labour of the servant, who was bringing water for a bath, of no effect, by drinking up the water as fast as it was brought. from warsaw they went on to leipzig, and thence to giessen, where they arrived on september th. we moved on to giessen, and put up at the "rappe hotel" for the night, and ordered an early breakfast of an obliging waiter who talked english. "coffee!" he exclaimed delightedly, catching at the word as if it were a really original idea, "ah, coffee--very nice--and eggs? ham with your eggs? very nice--" "if we can have it broiled," i said. "boiled?" the waiter repeated, with an incredulous smile. "no, not _boiled_," i explained--"_broiled_." the waiter put aside this distinction as trivial, "yes, yes, ham," he repeated, reverting to his favourite idea. "yes, ham," i said, "but how cooked?" "yes, yes, how cooked," the waiter replied, with the careless air of one who assents to a proposition more from good nature than from a real conviction of its truth. _sept. th_.--at midday we reached ems, after a journey eventless, but through a very interesting country--valleys winding away in all directions among hills clothed with trees to the very top, and white villages nestling away wherever there was a comfortable corner to hide in. the trees were so small, so uniform in colour, and so continuous, that they gave to the more distant hills something of the effect of banks covered with moss. the really unique feature of the scenery was the way in which the old castles seemed to grow, rather than to have been built, on the tops of the rocky promontories that showed their heads here and there among the trees. i have never seen architecture that seemed so entirely in harmony with the spirit of the place. by some subtle instinct the old architects seem to have chosen both form and colour, the grouping of the towers with their pointed spires, and the two neutral tints, light grey and brown, on the walls and roof, so as to produce buildings which look as naturally fitted to the spot as the heath or the harebells. and, like the flowers and the rocks, they seemed instinct with no other meaning than rest and silence. and with these beautiful words my extracts from the diary may well conclude. lewis carroll's mind was completely at one with nature, and in her pleasant places of calm and infinite repose he sought his rest--and has found it. [illustration: sir john tenniel. _from a photograph by bassano_.] * * * * * chapter iv ( - ) death of archdeacon dodgson--lewis carroll's rooms at christ church--"phantasmagoria"--translations of "alice"--"through the looking-glass"--"jabberwocky" in latin--c.s. calverley--"notes by an oxford chiel"--hatfield--vivisection--"the hunting of the snark." the success of "alice in wonderland" tempted mr. dodgson to make another essay in the same field of literature. his idea had not yet been plagiarised, as it was afterwards, though the book had of course been parodied, a notable instance being "alice in blunderland," which appeared in _punch_. it was very different when he came to write "sylvie and bruno"; the countless imitations of the two "alice" books which had been foisted upon the public forced him to strike out in a new line. long before the publication of his second tale, people had heard that lewis carroll was writing again, and the editor of a well-known magazine had offered him two guineas a page, which was a high rate of pay in those days, for the story, if he would allow it to appear in serial form. the central idea was, as every one knows, the adventures of a little girl who had somehow or other got through a looking-glass. the first difficulty, however, was to get her through, and this question exercised his ingenuity for some time, before it was satisfactorily solved. the next thing was to secure tenniel's services again. at first it seemed that he was to be disappointed in this matter; tenniel was so fully occupied with other work that there seemed little hope of his being able to undertake any more. he then applied to sir noel paton, with whose fairy-pictures he had fallen in love; but the artist was ill, and wrote in reply, "tenniel is _the_ man." in the end tenniel consented to undertake the work, and once more author and artist settled down to work together. mr. dodgson was no easy man to work with; no detail was too small for his exact criticism. "don't give alice so much crinoline," he would write, or "the white knight must not have whiskers; he must not be made to look old"--such were the directions he was constantly giving. on june st archdeacon dodgson died, after an illness of only a few days' duration. lewis carroll was not summoned until too late, for the illness took a sudden turn for the worse, and he was unable to reach his father's bedside before the end had come. this was a terrible shock to him; his father had been his ideal of what a christian gentleman should be, and it seemed to him at first as if a cloud had settled on his life which could never be dispelled. two letters of his, both of them written long after the sad event, give one some idea of the grief which his father's death, and all that it entailed, caused him. the first was written long afterwards, to one who had suffered a similar bereavement. in this letter he said:-- we are sufficiently old friends, i feel sure, for me to have no fear that i shall seem intrusive in writing about your great sorrow. the greatest blow that has ever fallen on _my_ life was the death, nearly thirty years ago, of my own dear father; so, in offering you my sincere sympathy, i write as a fellow-sufferer. and i rejoice to know that we are not only fellow-sufferers, but also fellow-believers in the blessed hope of the resurrection from the dead, which makes such a parting holy and beautiful, instead of being merely a blank despair. the second was written to a young friend, miss edith rix, who had sent him an illuminated text: my dear edith,--i can now tell you (what i wanted to do when you sent me that text-card, but felt i could not say it to _two_ listeners, as it were) _why_ that special card is one i like to have. that text is consecrated for me by the memory of one of the greatest sorrows i have known--the death of my dear father. in those solemn days, when we used to steal, one by one, into the darkened room, to take yet another look at the dear calm face, and to pray for strength, the one feature in the room that i remember was a framed text, illuminated by one of my sisters, "then are they glad, because they are at rest; and so he bringeth them into the haven where they would be!" that text will always have, for me, a sadness and a sweetness of its own. thank you again for sending it me. please don't mention this when we meet. i can't _talk_ about it. always affectionately yours, c. l. dodgson. the object of his edition of euclid book v., published during the course of the year, was to meet the requirements of the ordinary pass examination, and to present the subject in as short and simple a form as possible. hence the theory of incommensurable magnitudes was omitted, though, as the author himself said in the preface, to do so rendered the work incomplete, and, from a logical point of view, valueless. he hinted pretty plainly his own preference for an equivalent amount of algebra, which would be complete in itself. it is easy to understand this preference in a mind so strictly logical as his. so far as the object of the book itself is concerned, he succeeded admirably; the propositions are clearly and beautifully worked out, and the hints on proving propositions in euclid book v., are most useful. in november he again moved into new rooms at christ church; the suite which he occupied from this date to the end of his life was one of the best in the college. situated at the north-west corner of tom quad, on the first floor of the staircase from the entrance to which the junior common room is now approached, they consist of four sitting-rooms and about an equal number of bedrooms, besides rooms for lumber, &c. from the upper floor one can easily reach the flat college roof. mr. dodgson saw at once that here was the very place for a photographic studio, and he lost no time in obtaining the consent of the authorities to erect one. here he took innumerable photographs of his friends and their children, as indeed he had been doing for some time under less favourable conditions. one of his earliest pictures is an excellent likeness of professor faraday. [illustration: prof. faraday. _from a photograph by lewis carroll_.] his study was characteristic of the man; oil paintings by a. hughes, mrs. anderson, and heaphy proclaimed his artistic tastes; nests of pigeon-holes, each neatly labelled, showed his love of order; shelves, filled with the best books on every subject that interested him, were evidence of his wide reading. his library has now been broken up and, except for a few books retained by his nearest relatives, scattered to the winds; such dispersions are inevitable, but they are none the less regrettable. it always seems to me that one of the saddest things about the death of a literary man is the fact that the breaking-up of his collection of books almost invariably follows; the building up of a good library, the work of a lifetime, has been so much labour lost, so far as future generations are concerned. talent, yes, and genius too, are displayed not only in writing books but also in buying them, and it is a pity that the ruthless hammer of the auctioneer should render so much energy and skill fruitless. [illustration: lewis carroll's study at christ church, oxford.] lewis carroll's dining-room has been the scene of many a pleasant little party, for he was very fond of entertaining. in his diary, each of the dinners and luncheons that he gave is recorded by a small diagram, which shows who his guests were, and their several positions at the table. he kept a _menu_ book as well, that the same people might not have the same dishes too frequently. he sometimes gave large parties, but his favourite form of social relaxation was a _dîner à deux_. at the beginning of his "phantasmagoria," a collection of poems grave and gay, was published by macmillan. upon the whole he was more successful in humorous poetry, but there is an undeniable dignity and pathos in his more serious verses. he gave a copy to mr. justice denman, with whom he afterwards came to be very well acquainted, and who appreciated the gift highly. "i did not lay down the book," he wrote, "until i had read them [the poems] through; and enjoyed many a hearty laugh, and something like a cry or two. moreover, i hope to read them through (as the _old man_ said) 'again and again.'" [illustration: justice denman. _from a photograph by lewis carroll_.] it had been lewis carroll's intention to have "phantasmagoria" illustrated, and he had asked george du maurier to undertake the work; but the plan fell through. in his letter to du maurier, mr. dodgson had made some inquiries about miss florence montgomery, the authoress of "misunderstood." in reply du maurier said, "miss florence montgomery is a very charming and sympathetic young lady, the daughter of the admiral of that ilk. i am, like you, a very great admirer of "misunderstood," and cried pints over it. when i was doing the last picture i had to put a long white pipe in the little boy's mouth until it was finished, so as to get rid of the horrible pathos of the situation while i was executing the work. in reading the book a second time (knowing the sad end of the dear little boy), the funny parts made me cry almost as much as the pathetic ones." a few days after the publication of "phantasmagoria," lewis carroll sent the first chapter of his new story to the press. "behind the looking-glass and what alice saw there" was his original idea for its title; it was dr. liddon who suggested the name finally adopted. during this year german and french translations of "alice in wonderland" were published by macmillan; the italian edition appeared in . henri bué, who was responsible for the french version, had no easy task to perform. in many cases the puns proved quite untranslatable; while the poems, being parodies on well-known english pieces, would have been pointless on the other side of the channel. for instance, the lines beginning, "how doth the little crocodile" are a parody on "how doth the little busy bee," a song which a french child has, of course, never heard of. in this case bué gave up the idea of translation altogether, and, instead, parodied la fontaine's "maître corbeau" as follows:-- maître corbeau sur un arbre perché faisait son nid entre des branches; il avait relevé ses manches, car il était très affairé. maître renard par là passant, lui dit: "descendez donc, compère; venez embrasser votre frère!" le corbeau, le reconnaissant, lui répondit en son ramage!-- "fromage." the dialogue in which the joke occurs about "tortoise" and "taught us" ("wonderland," p. ) is thus rendered:-- "la maîtresse était une vieille tortue; nous l'appelions chélonée." "et pourquoi l'appeliez-vous chélonée, si ce n'était pas son nom?" "parcequ'on ne pouvait s'empêcher de s'écrier en la voyant: quel long nez!" dit la fausse-tortue d'un ton fâché; "vous êtes vraiment bien bornée!" at two points, however, both m. bué and miss antonie zimmermann, who translated the tale into german, were fairly beaten: the reason for the whiting being so called, from its doing the boots and shoes, and for no wise fish going anywhere without a porpoise, were given up as untranslatable. at the beginning of lord salisbury came up to oxford to be installed as chancellor of the university. dr. liddon introduced mr. dodgson to him, and thus began a very pleasant acquaintance. of course he photographed the chancellor and his two sons, for he never missed an opportunity of getting distinguished people into his studio. [illustration: lord salisbury and his two sons. _from a photograph by lewis carroll_.] in december, seven "puzzles from wonderland" appeared in mrs. gatty's paper, _aunt judy's magazine_. they had originally been written for the cecil children, with whom lewis carroll was already on the best terms. meanwhile "through the looking-glass" was steadily progressing--not, however, without many little hitches. one question which exercised mr. dodgson very much was whether the picture of the jabberwock would do as a frontispiece, or whether it would be too frightening for little children. on this point he sought the advice of about thirty of his married lady friends, whose experiences with their own children would make them trustworthy advisers; and in the end he chose the picture of the white knight on horseback. in the book appeared, and was an instantaneous success. eight thousand of the first edition had been taken up by the booksellers before mr. dodgson had even received his own presentation copies. the compliments he received upon the "looking-glass" would have been enough to turn a lesser man's head, but he was, i think, proof against either praise or blame. i can say with a clear head and conscience [wrote henry kingsley] that your new book is the finest thing we have had since "martin chuzzlewit." ... i can only say, in comparing the new "alice" with the old, "this is a more excellent song than the other." it is perfectly splendid, but you have, doubtless, heard that from other quarters. i lunch with macmillan habitually, and he was in a terrible pickle about not having printed enough copies the other day. jabberwocky[ ] was at once recognised as the best and most original thing in the book, though one fair correspondent of _the queen_ declared that it was a translation from the german! the late dean of rochester, dr. scott, writes about it to mr. dodgson as follows:-- are we to suppose, after all, that the saga of jabberwocky is one of the universal heirlooms which the aryan race at its dispersion carried with it from the great cradle of the family? you must really consult max müller about this. it begins to be probable that the _origo originalissima_ may be discovered in sanscrit, and that we shall by and by have a _iabrivokaveda_. the hero will turn out to be the sun-god in one of his _avatars_; and the tumtum tree the great ash _ygdrasil_ of the scandinavian mythology. in march, , the late mr. a.a. vansittart, of trinity college, cambridge, translated the poem into latin elegiacs. his rendering was printed, for private circulation only, i believe, several years later, but will probably be new to most of my readers. a careful comparison with the original shows the wonderful fidelity of this translation:-- "mors iabrochii" coesper[ ] erat: tunc lubriciles[ ] ultravia circum urgebant gyros gimbiculosque tophi; moestenui visae borogovides ire meatu; et profugi gemitus exgrabuêre rathae. o fuge iabrochium, sanguis meus![ ] ille recurvis unguibus, estque avidis dentibus ille minax. ububae fuge cautus avis vim, gnate! neque unquam faedarpax contra te frumiosus eat! vorpali gladio juvenis succingitur: hostis manxumus ad medium quaeritur usque diem: jamque via fesso, sed plurima mente prementi, tumtumiae frondis suaserat umbra moram. consilia interdum stetit egnia[ ] mente revolvens: at gravis in densa fronde susuffrus[ ] erat, spiculaque[ ] ex oculis jacientis flammea, tulscam per silvam venit burbur?[ ] iabrochii! vorpali, semel atque iterum collectus in ictum, persnicuit gladio persnacuitque puer: deinde galumphatus, spernens informe cadaver, horrendum monstri rettulit ipse caput. victor iabrochii, spoliis insignis opimis, rursus in amplexus, o radiose, meos! o frabiose dies! callo clamateque calla! vix potuit laetus chorticulare pater. coesper erat: tunc lubriciles ultravia circum urgebant gyros gimbiculosque tophi; moestenui visae borogovides ire meatu; et profugi gemitus exgrabuêre rathae. a.a.v. jabberwocky. 'twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe; all mimsy were the borogroves, and the mome raths outgrabe. "beware the jabberwock, my son! the jaws that bite, the claws that scratch! beware the jubjub bird, and shun the frumious bandersnatch!" he took his vorpal sword in hand: long time the manxome foe he sought-- so rested he by the tumtum tree, and stood awhile in thought. and as in uffish thought he stood, the jabberwock, with eyes of flame, came whiffling through the tulgey wood and burbled as it came! one, two! one, two! and through and through the vorpal blade went snicker-snack! he left it dead, and with its head he went galumphing back. "and hast thou slain the jabberwock? come to my arms, my beamish boy! o frabjous day! callooh! callay!" he chortled in his joy. 'twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe; all mimsy were the borogroves, and the mome raths outgrabe. the story, as originally written, contained thirteen chapters, but the published book consisted of twelve only. the omitted chapter introduced a wasp, in the character of a judge or barrister, i suppose, since mr. tenniel wrote that "a _wasp_ in a _wig_ is altogether beyond the appliances of art." apart from difficulties of illustration, the "wasp" chapter was not considered to be up to the level of the rest of the book, and this was probably the principal reason of its being left out. "it is a curious fact," wrote mr. tenniel some years later, when replying to a request of lewis carroll's that he would illustrate another of his books, "that with 'through the looking-glass' the faculty of making drawings for book illustration departed from me, and, notwithstanding all sorts of tempting inducements, i have done nothing in that direction since." [illustration: _facsimile of a letter from sir john tenniel to lewis carroll, june_ , .] "through the looking glass" has recently appeared in a solemn judgment of the house of lords. in _eastman photographic materials company v. comptroller general of patents, designs, and trademarks_ ( ), the question for decision was, what constitutes an invented word? a trademark that consists of or contains an invented word or words is capable of registration. "solio" was the word in issue in the case. lord macnaghten in his judgment said, when alluding to the distinguishing characteristics of an invented word: i do not think that it is necessary that it should be wholly meaningless. to give an illustration: your lordships may remember that in a book of striking humour and fancy, which was in everybody's hands when it was first published, there is a collection of strange words where "there are" (to use the language of the author) "two meanings packed up into one word." no one would say that those were not invented words. still they contain a meaning--a meaning is wrapped up in them if you can only find it out. before i leave the subject of the "looking-glass," i should like to mention one or two circumstances in connection with it which illustrate his reverence for sacred things. in his original manuscript the bad-tempered flower (pp. - ) was the passion-flower; the sacred origin of the name never struck him, until it was pointed out to him by a friend, when he at once changed it into the tiger-lily. another friend asked him if the final scene was based upon the triumphal conclusion of "pilgrim's progress." he repudiated the idea, saying that he would consider such trespassing on holy ground as highly irreverent. he seemed never to be satisfied with the amount of work he had on hand, and in he determined to add to his other labours by studying anatomy and physiology. professor barclay thompson supplied him with a set of bones, and, having purchased the needful books, he set to work in good earnest. his mind was first turned to acquiring medical knowledge by his happening to be at hand when a man was seized with an epileptic fit. he had prevented the poor creature from falling, but was utterly at a loss what to do next. to be better prepared on any future occasion, he bought a little manual called "what to do in emergencies." in later years he was constantly buying medical and surgical works, and by the end of his life he had a library of which no doctor need have been ashamed. there were only two special bequests in his will, one of some small keepsakes to his landlady at eastbourne, mrs. dyer, and the other of his medical books to my brother. whenever a new idea presented itself to his mind he used to make a note of it; he even invented a system by which he could take notes in the dark, if some happy thought or ingenious problem suggested itself to him during a sleepless night. like most men who systematically overtax their brains, he was a poor sleeper. he would sometimes go through a whole book of euclid in bed; he was so familiar with the bookwork that he could actually see the figures before him in the dark, and did not confuse the letters, which is perhaps even more remarkable. most of his ideas were ingenious, though many were entirely useless from a practical point of view. for instance, he has an entry in his diary on november , : "i wrote to calverley, suggesting an idea (which i think occurred to me yesterday) of guessing well-known poems as acrostics, and making a collection of them to hoax the public." calverley's reply to this letter was as follows:-- my dear sir,--i have been laid up (or laid down) for the last few days by acute lumbago, or i would have written before. it is rather absurd that i was on the point of propounding to you this identical idea. i realised, and i regret to add revealed to two girls, a fortnight ago, the truth that all existing poems were in fact acrostics; and i offered a small pecuniary reward to whichever would find out gray's "elegy" within half an hour! but it never occurred to me to utilise the discovery, as it did to you. i see that it might be utilised, now you mention it--and i shall instruct these two young women not to publish the notion among their friends. this is the way mr. calverley treated kirke white's poem "to an early primrose." "the title," writes c.s.c. "might either be ignored or omitted. possibly carpers might say that a primrose was not a rose." mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire! whose modest form, so delicately fine, wild was nursed in whistling storms rose and cradled in the winds! thee, when young spring first questioned winter's sway, and dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, w a r thee on this bank he threw to mark his victory. in this low vale, the promise of the year, serene thou openest to the nipping gale, unnoticed and alone i ncognit o thy tender elegance. so virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms of chill adversity, in some lone walk of life she rears her head l owlines s obscure and unobserved. while every bleaching breeze that on her blows chastens her spotless purity of breast, and hardens her to bear d isciplin e serene the ills of life. in the course of their correspondence mr. calverley wrote a shakespearian sonnet, the initial letters of which form the name of william herbert; and a parody entitled "the new hat." i reproduce them both. when o'er the world night spreads her mantle dun, in dreams, my love, i see those stars, thine eyes, lighting the dark: but when the royal sun looks o'er the pines and fires the orient skies, i bask no longer in thy beauty's ray, and lo! my world is bankrupt of delight. murk night seemed lately fair-complexioned day; hope-bringing day now seems most doleful night. end, weary day, that art no day to me! return, fair night, to me the best of days! but o my rose, whom in my dreams i see, enkindle with like bliss my waking gaze! replete with thee, e'en hideous night grows fair: then what would sweet morn be, if thou wert there? the new hat. my boots had been wash'd, well wash'd, by a shower; but little i car'd about that: what i felt was the havoc a single half-hour had made with my beautiful hat. for the boot, tho' its lustre be dimm'd, shall assume new comeliness after a while; but no art may restore its original bloom, when once it hath fled, to the tile. i clomb to my perch, and the horses (a bay and a brown) trotted off with a clatter; the driver look'd round in his humorous way, and said huskily, "who is your hatter?" i was pleased that he'd noticed its shape and its shine; and, as soon as we reached the "old druid," i begged him to drink to its welfare and mine in a glass of my favourite fluid. a gratified smile sat, i own, on my lips when the barmaid exclaimed to the master, (he was standing inside with his hands on his hips), "just look at that gentleman's castor." i laughed, when an organman paus'd in mid-air-- ('twas an air that i happened to know, by a great foreign _maestro_)--expressly to stare at ze gent wiz _ze joli chapeau_. yet how swift is the transit from laughter to tears! how rife with results is a day! that hat might, with care, have adorned me for years; but one show'r wash'd its beauty away. how i lov'd thee, my bright one! i pluck in remorse my hands from my pockets and wring 'em: oh, why did not i, dear, as a matter of course, ere i purchas'd thee purchase a gingham? c.s. calverley. mr. dodgson spent the last night of the old year ( ) at hatfield, where he was the guest of lord salisbury. there was a large party of children in the house, one of them being princess alice, to whom he told as much of the story of "sylvie and bruno" as he had then composed. while the tale was in progress lady salisbury entered the room, bringing in some new toy or game to amuse her little guests, who, with the usual thoughtlessness of children, all rushed off and left mr. dodgson. but the little princess, suddenly appearing to remember that to do so might perhaps hurt his feelings, sat down again by his side. he read the kind thought which prompted her action, and was much pleased by it. as mr. dodgson knew several members of the _punch_ staff, he used to send up any little incidents or remarks that particularly amused him to that paper. he even went so far as to suggest subjects for cartoons, though i do not know if his ideas were ever carried out. one of the anecdotes he sent to _punch_ was that of a little boy, aged four, who after having listened with much attention to the story of lot's wife, asked ingenuously, "where does salt come from that's _not_ made of ladies?" this appeared on january , . the following is one of several such little anecdotes jotted down by lewis carroll for future use: dr. paget was conducting a school examination, and in the course of his questions he happened to ask a small child the meaning of "average." he was utterly bewildered by the reply, "the thing that hens lay on," until the child explained that he had read in a book that hens lay _on an average_ so many eggs a year. among the notable people whom he photographed was john ruskin, and, as several friends begged him for copies, he wrote to ask mr. ruskin's leave. the reply was, "buy number of _fors clavigera_ for , which will give you your answer." this was not what mr. dodgson wanted, so he wrote back, "can't afford ten-pence!" finally mr. ruskin gave his consent. [illustration: john ruskin. _from a photograph by lewis carroll_.] about this time came the anonymous publication of "notes by an oxford chiel," a collection of papers written on various occasions, and all of them dealing with oxford controversies. taking them in order, we have first "the new method of evaluation as applied to [_pi_]," first published by messrs. parker in , which had for its subject the controversy about the regius professorship of greek. one extract will be sufficient to show the way in which the affair was treated: "let u = the university, g = greek, and p = professor. then g p = greek professor; let this be reduced to its lowest terms and call the result j [i.e., jowett]." the second paper is called "the dynamics of a parti-cle," and is quite the best of the series; it is a geometrical treatment of the contest between mr. gathorne hardy and mr. gladstone for the representation of the university. here are some of the "definitions" with which the subject was introduced:-- _plain superficiality_ is the character of a speech, in which any two points being taken, the speaker is found to lie wholly with regard to those two points. _plain anger_ is the inclination of two voters to one another, who meet together, but whose views are not in the same direction. when two parties, coming together, feel a right anger, each is _said_ to be _complimentary_ to the other, though, strictly speaking, this is very seldom the case. _a surd_ is a radical whose meaning cannot be exactly ascertained. as the "notes of an oxford chiel" has been long out of print, i will give a few more extracts from this paper:-- _on differentiation._ the effect of differentiation on a particle is very remarkable, the first differential being frequently of greater value than the original particle, and the second of less enlightenment. for example, let l = "leader", s = "saturday", and then ls = "leader in the saturday" (a particle of no assignable value). differentiating once, we get l.s.d., a function of great value. similarly it will be found that, by taking the second differential of an enlightened particle (_i.e.,_ raising it to the degree d.d.), the enlightenment becomes rapidly less. the effect is much increased by the addition of a c: in this case the enlightenment often vanishes altogether, and the particle becomes conservative. propositions. prop. i. pr. _to find the value of a given examiner_. _example_.--a takes in ten books in the final examination and gets a rd class; b takes in the examiners, and gets a nd. find the value of the examiners in terms of books. find also their value in terms in which no examination is held. prop. ii. pr. _to estimate profit and loss_. _example_.--given a derby prophet, who has sent three different winners to three different betting-men, and given that none of the three horses are placed. find the total loss incurred by the three men (_a_) in money, (_b_) in temper. find also the prophet. is this latter usually possible? prop. iv. th. _the end_ (i.e., "_the product of the extremes") justifies_ (i.e., "_is equal to_"--_see latin "aequus") the means_. no example is appended to this proposition, for obvious reasons. prop. v. pr. _to continue a given series._ _example_.--a and b, who are respectively addicted to fours and fives, occupy the same set of rooms, which is always at sixes and sevens. find the probable amount of reading done by a and b while the eights are on. the third paper was entitled "facts, figures, and fancies." the best thing in it was a parody on "the deserted village," from which an extract will be found in a later chapter. there was also a letter to the senior censor of christ church, in burlesque of a similar letter in which the professor of physics met an offer of the clarendon trustees by a detailed enumeration of the requirements in his own department of natural science. mr. dodgson's letter deals with the imaginary requirements of the mathematical school:-- dear senior censor,--in a desultory conversation on a point connected with the dinner at our high table, you incidentally remarked to me that lobster-sauce, "though a necessary adjunct to turbot, was not entirely wholesome!" it is entirely unwholesome. i never ask for it without reluctance: i never take a second spoonful without a feeling of apprehension on the subject of a possible nightmare. this naturally brings me to the subject of mathematics, and of the accommodation provided by the university for carrying on the calculations necessary in that important branch of science. as members of convocation are called upon (whether personally, or, as is less exasperating, by letter) to consider the offer of the clarendon trustees, as well as every other subject of human, or inhuman, interest, capable of consideration, it has occurred to me to suggest for your consideration how desirable roofed buildings are for carrying on mathematical calculations: in fact, the variable character of the weather in oxford renders it highly inexpedient to attempt much occupation, of a sedentary nature, in the open air. again, it is often impossible for students to carry on accurate mathematical calculations in close contiguity to one another, owing to their mutual conversation; consequently these processes require different rooms in which irrepressible conversationalists, who are found to occur in every branch of society, might be carefully and permanently fixed. it may be sufficient for the present to enumerate the following requisites--others might be added as funds permit:-- a. a very large room for calculating greatest common measure. to this a small one might be attached for least common multiple: this, however, might be dispensed with. b. a piece of open ground for keeping roots and practising their extraction: it would be advisable to keep square roots by themselves, as their corners are apt to damage others. c. a room for reducing fractions to their lowest terms. this should be provided with a cellar for keeping the lowest terms when found, which might also be available to the general body of undergraduates, for the purpose of "keeping terms." d. a large room, which might be darkened, and fitted up with a magic lantern, for the purpose of exhibiting circulating decimals in the act of circulation. this might also contain cupboards, fitted with glass doors, for keeping the various scales of notation. e. a narrow strip of ground, railed off and carefully levelled, for investigating the properties of asymptotes, and testing practically whether parallel lines meet or not: for this purpose it should reach, to use the expressive language of euclid, "ever so far." this last process of "continually producing the lines," may require centuries or more; but such a period, though long in the life of an individual, is as nothing in the life of the university. as photography is now very much employed in recording human expressions, and might possibly be adapted to algebraical expressions, a small photographic room would be desirable, both for general use and for representing the various phenomena of gravity, disturbance of equilibrium, resolution, &c., which affect the features during severe mathematical operations. may i trust that you will give your immediate attention to this most important subject? believe me, sincerely yours, mathematicus. next came "the new belfry of christ church, oxford; a monograph by d.c.l." on the title-page was a neatly drawn square--the figure of euclid i. --below which was written "east view of the new belfry, christ church, as seen from the meadow." the new belfry is fortunately a thing of the past, and its insolent hideousness no longer defaces christ church, but while it lasted it was no doubt an excellent target for lewis carroll's sarcasm. his article on it is divided into thirteen chapters. three of them are perhaps worth quoting:-- § . _on the etymological significance of the new belfry, ch. ch_. the word "belfry" is derived from the french _bel_, "beautiful, becoming, meet," and from the german _frei_, "free unfettered, secure, safe." thus, the word is strictly equivalent to "meat-safe," to which the new belfry bears a resemblance so perfect as almost to amount to coincidence. § . _on the chief architectural merit of the new belfry, ch. ch_. its chief merit is its simplicity--a simplicity so pure, so profound, in a word, so _simple_, that no other word will fitly describe it. the meagre outline, and baldness of detail, of the present chapter, are adopted in humble imitation of this great feature. § . _on the other architectural merits of the new belfry, ch. ch_. the belfry has no other architectural merits. "the vision of the three t's" followed. it also was an attack on architectural changes in christ church; the general style was a parody of the "compleat angler." last of all came "the blank cheque, a fable," in reference to the building of the new schools, for the expenses of which it was actually proposed (in ), to sign a blank cheque before any estimate had been made, or any plan laid before the university, and even before a committee had been elected to appoint an architect for the work. at the end of mr. dodgson was again at hatfield, where he told the children the story of prince uggug, which was afterwards made a part of "sylvie and bruno," though at that time it seems to have been a separate tale. but "sylvie and bruno," in this respect entirely unlike "alice in wonderland," was the result of notes taken during many years; for while he was thinking out the book he never neglected any amusing scraps of childish conversation or funny anecdotes about children which came to his notice. it is this fact which gives such verisimilitude to the prattle of bruno; childish talk is a thing which a grown-up person cannot possibly _invent_. he can only listen to the actual things the children say, and then combine what he has heard into a connected narrative. during mr. dodgson wrote an article on "some popular fallacies about vivisection," which was refused by the _pall mall gazette_, the editor saying that he had never heard of most of them; on which mr. dodgson plaintively notes in his diary that seven out of the thirteen fallacies dealt with in his essay had appeared in the columns of the _pall mall gazette_. ultimately it was accepted by the editor of _the fortnightly review_. mr. dodgson had a peculiar horror of vivisection. i was once walking in oxford with him when a certain well-known professor passed us. "i am afraid that man vivisects," he said, in his gravest tone. every year he used to get a friend to recommend him a list of suitable charities to which he should subscribe. once the name of some lost dogs' home appeared in this list. before mr. dodgson sent his guinea he wrote to the secretary to ask whether the manager of the home was in the habit of sending dogs that had to be killed to physiological laboratories for vivisection. the answer was in the negative, so the institution got the cheque. he did not, however, advocate the total abolition of vivisection--what reasonable man could?--but he would have liked to see it much more carefully restricted by law. an earlier letter of his to the _pall mall gazette_ on the same subject is sufficiently characteristic to deserve a place here. be it noted that he signed it "lewis carroll," in order that whatever influence or power his writings had gained him might tell in the controversy. vivisection as a sign of the times. _to the editor of the "pall mall gazette."_ sir,--the letter which appeared in last week's _spectator_, and which must have saddened the heart of every one who read it, seems to suggest a question which has not yet been asked or answered with sufficient clearness, and that is, how far may vivisection be regarded as a sign of the times, and a fair specimen of that higher civilisation which a purely secular state education is to give us? in that much-vaunted panacea for all human ills we are promised not only increase of knowledge, but also a higher moral character; any momentary doubt on this point which we may feel is set at rest at once by quoting the great crucial instance of germany. the syllogism, if it deserves the name, is usually stated thus: germany has a higher scientific education than england; germany has a lower average of crime than england; _ergo_, a scientific education tends to improve moral conduct. some old-fashioned logician might perhaps whisper to himself, "praemissis particularibus nihil probatur," but such a remark, now that aldrich is out of date, would only excite a pitying smile. may we, then, regard the practice of vivisection as a legitimate fruit, or as an abnormal development, of this higher moral character? is the anatomist, who can contemplate unmoved the agonies he is inflicting for no higher purpose than to gratify a scientific curiosity, or to illustrate some well-established truth, a being higher or lower, in the scale of humanity, than the ignorant boor whose very soul would sicken at the horrid sight? for if ever there was an argument in favour of purely scientific education more cogent than another, it is surely this (a few years back it might have been put into the mouth of any advocate of science; now it reads like the merest mockery): "what can teach the noble quality of mercy, of sensitiveness to all forms of suffering, so powerfully as the knowledge of what suffering really is? can the man who has once realised by minute study what the nerves are, what the brain is, and what waves of agony the one can convey to the other, go forth and wantonly inflict pain on any sentient being?" a little while ago we should have confidently replied, "he cannot do it"; in the light of modern revelations we must sorrowfully confess "he can." and let it never be said that this is done with serious forethought of the balance of pain and gain; that the operator has pleaded with himself, "pain is indeed an evil, but so much suffering may fitly be endured to purchase so much knowledge." when i hear of one of these ardent searchers after truth giving, not a helpless dumb animal, to whom he says in effect, "_you_ shall suffer that _i_ may know," but his own person to the probe and to the scalpel, i will believe in him as recognising a principle of justice, and i will honour him as acting up to his principles. "but the thing cannot be!" cries some amiable reader, fresh from an interview with that most charming of men, a london physician. "what! is it possible that one so gentle in manner, so full of noble sentiments, can be hardhearted? the very idea is an outrage to common sense!" and thus we are duped every day of our lives. is it possible that that bank director, with his broad honest face, can be meditating a fraud? that the chairman of that meeting of shareholders, whose every tone has the ring of truth in it, can hold in his hand a "cooked" schedule of accounts? that my wine merchant, so outspoken, so confiding, can be supplying me with an adulterated article? that the schoolmaster, to whom i have entrusted my little boy, can starve or neglect him? how well i remember his words to the dear child when last we parted. "you are leaving your friends," he said, "but you will have a father in me, my dear, and a mother in mrs. squeers!" for all such rose-coloured dreams of the necessary immunity from human vices of educated men the facts in last week's _spectator_ have a terrible significance. "trust no man further than you can see him," they seem to say. "qui vult decipi, decipiatur." allow me to quote from a modern writer a few sentences bearing on this subject:-- "we are at present, legislature and nation together, eagerly pushing forward schemes which proceed on the postulate that conduct is determined, not by feelings, but by cognitions. for what else is the assumption underlying this anxious urging-on of organisations for teaching? what is the root-notion common to secularists and denominationalists but the notion that spread of knowledge is the one thing needful for bettering behaviour? having both swallowed certain statistical fallacies, there has grown up in them the belief that state education will check ill-doing.... this belief in the moralising effects of intellectual culture, flatly contradicted by facts, is absurd _a priori_.... this faith in lesson-books and readings is one of the superstitions of the age.... not by precept, though heard daily; not by example, unless it is followed; but only by action, often caused by the related feeling, can a moral habit be formed. and yet this truth, which mental science clearly teaches, and which is in harmony with familiar sayings, is a truth wholly ignored in current educational fanaticisms." there need no praises of mine to commend to the consideration of all thoughtful readers these words of herbert spencer. they are to be found in "the study of sociology" (pp. l- ). let us, however, do justice to science. it is not so wholly wanting as mr. herbert spencer would have us believe in principles of action--principles by which we may regulate our conduct in life. i myself once heard an accomplished man of science declare that his labours had taught him one special personal lesson which, above all others, he had laid to heart. a minute study of the nervous system, and of the various forms of pain produced by wounds had inspired in him one profound resolution; and that was--what think you?--never, under any circumstances, to adventure his own person into the field of battle! i have somewhere read in a book--a rather antiquated book, i fear, and one much discredited by modern lights--the words, "the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain together until now." truly we read these words with a new meaning in the present day! "groan and travail" it undoubtedly does still (more than ever, so far as the brute creation is concerned); but to what end? some higher and more glorious state? so one might have said a few years back. not so in these days. the _telos teleion_ of secular education, when divorced from religious or moral training, is--i say it deliberately--the purest and most unmitigated selfishness. the world has seen and tired of the worship of nature, of reason, of humanity; for this nineteenth century has been reserved the development of the most refined religion of all--the worship of self. for that, indeed, is the upshot of it all. the enslavement of his weaker brethren--"the labour of those who do not enjoy, for the enjoyment of those who do not labour"--the degradation of woman--the torture of the animal world--these are the steps of the ladder by which man is ascending to his higher civilisation. selfishness is the key-note of all purely secular education; and i take vivisection to be a glaring, a wholly unmistakable case in point. and let it not be thought that this is an evil that we can hope to see produce the good for which we are asked to tolerate it, and then pass away. it is one that tends continually to spread. and if it be tolerated or even ignored now, the age of universal education, when the sciences, and anatomy among them, shall be the heritage of all, will be heralded by a cry of anguish from the brute creation that will ring through the length and breadth of the land! this, then, is the glorious future to which the advocate of secular education may look forward: the dawn that gilds the horizon of his hopes! an age when all forms of religious thought shall be things of the past; when chemistry and biology shall be the abc of a state education enforced on all; when vivisection shall be practised in every college and school; and when the man of science, looking forth over a world which will then own no other sway than his, shall exult in the thought that he has made of this fair green earth, if not a heaven for man, at least a hell for animals. i am, sir, your obedient servant, lewis carroll. _february th_. on march , , "the hunting of the snark" was published. mr. dodgson gives some interesting particulars of its evolution. the first idea for the poem was the line "for the snark _was_ a boojum, you see," which came into his mind, apparently without any cause, while he was taking a country walk. the first complete verse which he composed was the one which stands last in the poem:-- in the midst of the word he was trying to say, in the midst of his laughter and glee, he had softly and suddenly vanished away-- for the snark _was_ a boojum, you see. the illustrations were the work of mr. henry holiday, and they are thoroughly in keeping with the spirit of the poem. many people have tried to show that "the hunting of the snark" was an allegory; some regarding it as being a burlesque upon the tichborne case, and others taking the snark as a personification of popularity. lewis carroll always protested that the poem had no meaning at all. as to the meaning of the snark [he wrote to a friend in america], i'm very much afraid i didn't mean anything but nonsense. still, you know, words mean more than we mean to express when we use them; so a whole book ought to mean a great deal more than the writer means. so, whatever good meanings are in the book, i'm glad to accept as the meaning of the book. the best that i've seen is by a lady (she published it in a letter to a newspaper), that the whole book is an allegory on the search after happiness. i think this fits in beautifully in many ways--particularly about the bathing-machines: when the people get weary of life, and can't find happiness in towns or in books, then they rush off to the seaside, to see what bathing-machines will do for them. [illustration: henry holiday in his studio. _from a photograph_.] mr. h. holiday, in a very interesting article on "the snark's significance" (_academy,_ january , ), quoted the inscription which mr. dodgson had written in a vellum-bound, presentation-copy of the book. it is so characteristic that i take the liberty of reproducing it here:-- presented to henry holiday, most patient of artists, by charles l. dodgson, most exacting, but not most ungrateful of authors, march , . a little girl, to whom mr. dodgson had given a copy of the "snark," managed to get the whole poem off by heart, and insisted on reciting, it from beginning to end during a long carriage-drive. her friends, who, from the nature of the case, were unable to escape, no doubt wished that she, too, was a boojum. during the year, the first public dramatic representation of "alice in wonderland" was given at the polytechnic, the entertainment taking the form of a series of _tableaux_, interspersed with appropriate readings and songs. mr. dodgson exercised a rigid censorship over all the extraneous matter introduced into the performance, and put his veto upon a verse in one of the songs, in which the drowning of kittens was treated from the humorous point of view, lest the children in the audience might learn to think lightly of death in the case of the lower animals. [illustration: lewis carroll. _from a photograph_.] * * * * * chapter v ( - ) dramatic tastes--miss ellen terry--"natural science at oxford"--mr. dodgson as an artist--miss e. g. thomson--the drawing of children--a curious dream--"the deserted parks"--"syzygies"--circus children--row-loving undergraduates--a letter to _the observer_--resignation of the lectureship--he is elected curator of the common room--dream-music. mr. dodgson's love of the drama was not, as i have shown, a taste which he acquired in later years. from early college days he never missed anything which he considered worth seeing at the london theatres. i believe he used to reproach himself--unfairly, i think--with spending too much time on such recreations. for a man who worked so hard and so incessantly as he did; for a man to whom vacations meant rather a variation of mental employment than absolute rest of mind, the drama afforded just the sort of relief that was wanted. his vivid imagination, the very earnestness and intensity of his character enabled him to throw himself utterly into the spirit of what he saw upon the stage, and to forget in it all the petty worries and disappointments of life. the old adage says that a man cannot burn the candle at both ends; like most proverbs, it is only partially true, for often the hardest worker is the man who enters with most zest into his recreations, and this was emphatically the case with mr. dodgson. walter pater, in his book on the renaissance, says (i quote from rough notes only), "a counted number of pulses only is given to us of a variegated dramatic life. how may we see in them all that is to be seen in them by the finest senses? how shall we pass most swiftly from point to point, and be present always at the focus where the greatest number of vital forces unite in their purest energy? to burn always with this hard gem-like flame, to maintain this ecstasy, is success in life." here we have the truer philosophy, here we have the secret of lewis carroll's life. he never wasted time on social formalities; he refused to fulfil any of those (so called) duties which involve ineffable boredom, and so his mind was always fresh and ready. he said in one of his letters that he hoped that in the next world all knowledge would not be given to us suddenly, but that we should gradually grow wiser, for the _acquiring_ knowledge was to him the real pleasure. what is this but a paraphrase of another of pater's thoughts, "not the fruit of experience, but experience itself is the end." and so, times without number, he allowed himself to be carried away by emotion as he saw life in the mirror of the stage; but, best of all, he loved to see the acting of children, and he generally gave copies of his books to any of the little performers who specially pleased him. on january , , he wrote in his diary:-- went up to town for the day, and took e-- with me to the afternoon pantomime at the adelphi, "goody two-shoes," acted entirely by children. it was a really charming performance. little bertie coote, aged ten, was clown--a wonderfully clever little fellow; and carrie coote, about eight, was columbine, a very pretty graceful little thing. in a few years' time she will be just _the_ child to act "alice," if it is ever dramatised. the harlequin was a little girl named gilchrist, one of the most beautiful children, in face and figure, that i have ever seen. i must get an opportunity of photographing her. little bertie coote, singing "hot codlings," was curiously like the pictures of grimaldi. it need hardly be said that the little girl was miss constance gilchrist. mr. dodgson sent her a copy of "alice in wonderland," with a set of verses on her name. many people object altogether to children appearing on the stage; it is said to be bad for their morals as well as for their health. a letter which mr. dodgson once wrote in the _st. james's gazette_ contains a sufficient refutation of the latter fancy:-- i spent yesterday afternoon at brighton, where for five hours i enjoyed the society of three exceedingly happy and healthy little girls, aged twelve, ten, and seven. i think that any one who could have seen the vigour of life in those three children--the intensity with which they enjoyed everything, great or small, that came in their way--who could have watched the younger two running races on the pier, or have heard the fervent exclamation of the eldest at the end of the afternoon, "we _have_ enjoyed ourselves!" would have agreed with me that here, at least, there was no excessive "physical strain," nor any _imminent_ danger of "fatal results"! a drama, written by mr. savile clarke, is now being played at brighton, and in this (it is called "alice in wonderland") all three children have been engaged. they had been acting every night this week, and _twice_ on the day before i met them, the second performance lasting till half-past ten at night, after which they got up at seven next morning to bathe! that such (apparently) severe work should co-exist with blooming health and buoyant spirits seems at first sight a paradox; but i appeal to any one who has ever worked _con amore_ at any subject whatever to support me in the assertion that, when you really love the subject you are working at, the "physical strain" is absolutely _nil_; it is only when working "against the grain" that any strain is felt, and i believe the apparent paradox is to be explained by the fact that a taste for _acting_ is one of the strongest passions of human nature, that stage-children show it nearly from infancy, and that, instead of being miserable drudges who ought to be celebrated in a new "cry of the children," they simply _rejoice_ in their work "even as a giant rejoiceth to run his course." mr. dodgson's general views on the mission of the drama are well shown by an extract from a circular which he sent to many of his friends in :-- the stage (as every playgoer can testify) is an engine of incalculable power for influencing society; and every effort to purify and ennoble its aims seems to me to deserve all the countenance that the great, and all the material help that the wealthy, can give it; while even those who are neither great nor wealthy may yet do their part, and help to-- "ring out the darkness of the land, ring in the christ that is to be." [illustration: ellen terry. _from a photograph by lewis carroll_.] i do not know if mr. dodgson's suggested amendment of some lines in the "merchant of venice" was ever carried out, but it further illustrates the serious view he took of this subject. the hint occurs in a letter to miss ellen terry, which runs as follows:-- you gave me a treat on saturday such as i have very seldom had in my life. you must be weary by this time of hearing your own praises, so i will only say that portia was all i could have imagined, and more. and shylock is superb--especially in the trial-scene. now i am going to be very bold, and make a suggestion, which i do hope you will think well enough of to lay it before mr. irving. i want to see that clause omitted (in the sentence on shylock)-- that, for this favour, he presently become a christian; it is a sentiment that is entirely horrible and revolting to the feelings of all who believe in the gospel of love. why should our ears be shocked by such words merely because they are shakespeare's? in his day, when it was held to be a christian's duty to force his belief on others by fire and sword--to burn man's body in order to save his soul--the words probably conveyed no shock. to all christians now (except perhaps extreme calvinists) the idea of forcing a man to abjure his religion, whatever that religion may be, is (as i have said) simply horrible. i have spoken of it as a needless outrage on religious feeling: but surely, being so, it is a great artistic mistake. its tendency is directly contrary to the spirit of the scene. we have despised shylock for his avarice, and we rejoice to see him lose his wealth: we have abhorred him for his bloodthirsty cruelty, and we rejoice to see him baffled. and now, in the very fulness of our joy at the triumph of right over wrong, we are suddenly called on to see in him the victim of a cruelty a thousand times worse than his own, and to honour him as a martyr. this, i am sure, shakespeare never meant. two touches only of sympathy does he allow us, that we may realise him as a man, and not as a demon incarnate. "i will not pray with you"; "i had it of leah, when i was a bachelor." but i am sure he never meant our sympathies to be roused in the supreme moment of his downfall, and, if he were alive now, i believe he would cut out those lines about becoming a christian. no interpolation is needed--(i should not like to suggest the putting in a single word that is not shakespeare's)--i would read the speech thus:-- that lately stole his daughter: provided that he do record a gift, here in the court, &c. and i would omit gratiano's three lines at shylock's exit, and let the text stand:-- _duke_: "get thee gone, but do it." (_exit shylock_.) the exit, in solemn silence, would be, if possible, even grander than it now is, and would lose nothing by the omission of gratiano's flippant jest.... on january th he saw "new men and old acres" at the court theatre. the two authors of the pieces, dubourg and tom taylor, were great friends of his. "it was a real treat," he writes, "being well acted in every detail. ellen terry was wonderful, and i should think unsurpassable in all but the lighter parts." mr. dodgson himself had a strong wish to become a dramatic author, but, after one or two unsuccessful attempts to get his plays produced, he wisely gave up the idea, realising that he had not the necessary constructive powers. the above reference to miss ellen terry's acting is only one out of a countless number; the great actress and he were excellent friends, and she did him many a kindness in helping on young friends of his who had taken up the stage as a profession. [illustration: tom taylor. _from a photograph by lewis carroll_.] she and her sister, miss kate terry, were among the distinguished people whom he photographed. the first time he saw the latter actress was, i think, in , when she was playing in "the tempest" at the princess's. "the gem of the piece," he writes, "was the exquisitely graceful and beautiful ariel, miss kate terry. her appearance as a sea-nymph was one of the most beautiful living pictures i ever saw, but this, and every other one in my recollection (except queen katherine's dream), were all outdone by the concluding scene, where ariel is left alone, hovering over the wide ocean, watching the retreating ship. it is an innovation on shakespeare, but a worthy one, and the conception of a true poet." [illustration: kate terry. _from a photograph by lewis carroll_.] mr. dodgson was a frequent contributor to the daily press. as a rule his letters appeared in the _st. james's gazette_, for the editor, mr. greenwood, was a friend of his, but the following sarcastic epistle was an exception:-- natural science at oxford. _to the editor of the "pall mall gazette."_ sir,--there is no one of the many ingenious appliances of mechanical science that is more appreciated or more successfully employed than the wedge; so subtle and imperceptible are the forces needed for the insertion of its "thin end," so astounding the results which its "thick end" may ultimately produce. of the former process we shall see a beautiful illustration in a congregation to be holden at oxford on the th inst., when it will be proposed to grant, to those who have taken the degrees of bachelor and master in natural science only, the same voting powers as in the case of the "m.a." degree. this means the omission of one of the two classical languages, latin and greek, from what has been hitherto understood as the curriculum of an oxford education. it is to this "thin end" of the wedge that i would call the attention of our non-residents, and of all interested in oxford education, while the "thick end" is still looming in the distance. but why fear a "thick end" at all? i shall be asked. has natural science shown any such tendency, or given any reason to fear that such a concession would lead to further demands? in answer to that question, let me sketch, in dramatic fashion, the history of her recent career in oxford. in the dark ages of our university (some five-and-twenty years ago), while we still believed in classics and mathematics as constituting a liberal education, natural science sat weeping at our gates. "ah, let me in!" she moaned; "why cram reluctant youth with your unsatisfying lore? are they not hungering for bones; yea, panting for sulphuretted hydrogen?" we heard and we pitied. we let her in and housed her royally; we adorned her palace with re-agents and retorts, and made it a very charnel-house of bones, and we cried to our undergraduates, "the feast of science is spread! eat, drink, and be happy!" but they would not. they fingered the bones, and thought them dry. they sniffed at the hydrogen, and turned away. yet for all that science ceased not to cry, "more gold, more gold!" and her three fair daughters, chemistry, biology, and physics (for the modern horse-leech is more prolific than in the days of solomon), ceased not to plead, "give, give!" and we gave; we poured forth our wealth like water (i beg her pardon, like h{_ }o), and we could not help thinking there was something weird and uncanny in the ghoul-like facility with which she absorbed it. the curtain rises on the second act of the drama. science is still weeping, but this time it is for lack of pupils, not of teachers or machinery. "we are unfairly handicapped!" she cries. "you have prizes and scholarships for classics and mathematics, and you bribe your best students to desert us. buy us some bright, clever boys to teach, and then see what we can do!" once more we heard and pitied. we had bought her bones; we bought her boys. and now at last her halls were filled--not only with teachers paid to teach, but also with learners paid to learn. and we have not much to complain of in results, except that perhaps she is a little too ready to return on our hands all but the "honour-men"--all, in fact, who really need the helping hand of an educator. "here, take back your stupid ones!" she cries. "except as subjects for the scalpel (and we have not yet got the human vivisection act through parliament) we can do nothing with them!" the third act of the drama is yet under rehearsal; the actors are still running in and out of the green-room, and hastily shuffling on their new and ill-fitting dresses; but its general scope is not far to seek. at no distant day our once timid and tearful guest will be turning up her nose at the fare provided for her. "give me no more youths to teach," she will say; "but pay me handsomely, and let me think. plato and aristotle were all very well in their way; diogenes and his tub for me!" the allusion is not inappropriate. there can be little doubt that some of the researches conducted by that retiring philosopher in the recesses of that humble edifice were strictly scientific, embracing several distinct branches of entomology. i do not mean, of course, that "research" is a new idea in oxford. from time immemorial we have had our own chosen band of researchers (here called "professors"), who have advanced the boundaries of human knowledge in many directions. true, they are not left so wholly to themselves as some of these modern thinkers would wish to be, but are expected to give some few lectures, as the outcome of their "research" and the evidence of its reality, but even that condition has not always been enforced--for instance, in the case of the late professor of greek, dr. gaisford, the university was too conscious of the really valuable work he was doing in philological research to complain that he ignored the usual duties of the chair and delivered no lectures. and, now, what is the "thick end" of the wedge? it is that latin and greek may _both_ vanish from our curriculum; that logic, philosophy, and history may follow; and that the destinies of oxford may some day be in the hands of those who have had no education other than "scientific." and why not? i shall be asked. is it not as high a form of education as any other? that is a matter to be settled by facts. i can but offer my own little item of evidence, and leave it to others to confirm or to refute. it used once to be thought indispensable for an educated man that he should be able to write his own language correctly, if not elegantly; it seems doubtful how much longer this will be taken as a criterion. not so many years ago i had the honour of assisting in correcting for the press some pages of the _anthropological review_, or some such periodical. i doubt not that the writers were eminent men in their own line; that each could triumphantly prove, to his own satisfaction, the unsoundness of what the others had advanced; and that all would unite in declaring that the theories of a year ago were entirely exploded by the latest german treatise; but they were not able to set forth these thoughts, however consoling in themselves, in anything resembling the language of educated society. in all my experience, i have never read, even in the "local news" of a country paper, such slipshod, such deplorable english. i shall be told that i am ungenerous in thus picking out a few unfavourable cases, and that some of the greatest minds of the day are to be found in the ranks of science. i freely admit that such may be found, but my contention is that _they_ made the science, not the science them; and that in any line of thought they would have been equally distinguished. as a general principle, i do not think that the exclusive study of any _one_ subject is really education; and my experience as a teacher has shown me that even a considerable proficiency in natural science, taken alone, is so far from proving a high degree of cultivation and great natural ability that it is fully compatible with general ignorance and an intellect quite below par. therefore it is that i seek to rouse an interest, beyond the limits of oxford, in preserving classics as an essential feature of a university education. nor is it as a classical tutor (who might be suspected of a bias in favour of his own subject) that i write this. on the contrary, it is as one who has taught science here for more than twenty years (for mathematics, though good-humouredly scorned by the biologists on account of the abnormal certainty of its conclusions, is still reckoned among the sciences) that i beg to sign myself,--your obedient servant, charles l. dodgson, _mathematical lecturer of christ church, oxford. may th._ i give the above letter because i think it amusing; it must not be supposed that the writer's views on the subject remained the same all through his life. he was a thorough conservative, and it took a long time to reconcile him to any new departure. in a political discussion with a friend he once said that he was "first an englishman, and then a conservative," but however much a man may try to put patriotism before party, the result will be but partially successful, if patriotism would lead him into opposition to the mental bias which has originally made him either a conservative or a radical. he took, of course, great pleasure in the success of his books, as every author must; but the greatest pleasure of all to him was to know that they had pleased others. notes like the following are frequent in his diary: "_june_ _th_.--spent the afternoon in sending off seventy circulars to hospitals, offering copies of 'alice' and the 'looking-glass' for sick children." he well deserved the name which one of his admirers gave him--"the man who loved little children." in april, , he saw a performance of "olivia" at the court theatre. "the gem of the piece is olivia herself, acted by ellen terry with a sweetness and pathos that moved some of the audience (nearly including myself) to tears. her leave-taking was exquisite; and when, in her exile, she hears that her little brother had cried at the mention of her name, her exclamation 'pet!' was tenderness itself. altogether, i have not had a greater dramatic treat for a long time. _dies cretâ notandus_." i see that i have marked for quotation the following brief entries in the diary:-- _aug. th_ (at eastbourne).--went, morning and evening, to the new chapel-of-ease belonging to s. saviour's. it has the immense advantage of _not_ being crowded; but this scarcely compensates for the vile gregorian chants, which vex and weary one's ear. _aug. th_.--a very inquisitive person, who had some children with her, found out my name, and then asked me to shake hands with her child, as an admirer of my books: this i did, unwisely perhaps, as i have no intention of continuing the acquaintance of a "mrs. leo hunter." _dec. rd_.--i have been making a plan for work next term, of this kind: choose a subject (_e.g._, "circulation," "journeys of s. paul," "english counties") for each week. on monday write what i know about it; during week get up subject; on saturday write again; put the two papers away, and six months afterwards write again and compare. as an artist, mr. dodgson possessed an intense natural appreciation of the beautiful, an abhorrence of all that is coarse and unseemly which might almost be called hyper-refinement, a wonderfully good eye for form, and last, but not least, the most scrupulous conscientiousness about detail. on the other hand his sense of colour was somewhat imperfect, and his hand was almost totally untrained, so that while he had all the enthusiasm of the true artist, his work always had the defects of an amateur. [illustration: miss e. gertrude thomson.] in some drawings of miss e. gertrude thomson's excited his keen admiration, and he exerted himself to make her acquaintance. their first meeting is described so well by miss thomson herself in _the gentlewoman_ for january , , that i cannot do better than quote the description of the scene as given there:-- it was at the end of december, , that a letter, written in a singularly legible and rather boyish-looking hand, came to me from christ church, oxford, signed "c. l. dodgson." the writer said that he had come across some fairy designs of mine, and he should like to see some more of my work. by the same post came a letter from my london publisher (who had supplied my address) telling me that the "rev. c. l. dodgson" was "lewis carroll." "alice in wonderland" had long been one of my pet books, and as one regards a favourite author as almost a personal friend, i felt less restraint than one usually feels in writing to a stranger, though i carefully concealed my knowledge of his identity, as he had not chosen to reveal it. this was the beginning of a frequent and delightful correspondence, and as i confessed to a great love for fairy lore of every description, he asked me if i would accept a child's fairy-tale book he had written, called "alice in wonderland." i replied that i knew it nearly all off by heart, but that i should greatly prize a copy given to me by himself. by return came "alice," and "through the looking-glass," bound most luxuriously in white calf and gold. and this is the graceful and kindly note that came with them: "i am now sending you 'alice,' and the 'looking-glass' as well. there is an incompleteness about giving only one, and besides, the one you bought was probably in red and would not match these. if you are at all in doubt as to what to do with the (now) superfluous copy, let me suggest your giving it to some poor sick child. i have been distributing copies to all the hospitals and convalescent homes i can hear of, where there are sick children capable of reading them, and though, of course, one takes some pleasure in the popularity of the books elsewhere, it is not nearly so pleasant a thought to me as that they may be a comfort and relief to children in hours of pain and weariness. still, no recipient _can_ be more appropriate than one who seems to have been in fairyland herself, and to have seen, like the 'weary mariners' of old-- 'between the green brink and the running foam white limbs unrobed in a crystal air, sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms prest to little harps of gold.'" "do you ever come to london?" he asked in another letter; "if so, will you allow me to call upon you?" early in the summer i came up to study, and i sent him word that i was in town. one night, coming into my room, after a long day spent at the british museum, in the half-light i saw a card lying on the table. "rev. c. l. dodgson." bitter, indeed, was my disappointment at having missed him, but just as i was laying it sadly down i spied a small t.o. in the corner. on the back i read that he couldn't get up to my rooms early or late enough to find me, so would i arrange to meet him at some museum or gallery the day but one following? i fixed on south kensington museum, by the "schliemann" collection, at twelve o'clock. a little before twelve i was at the rendezvous, and then the humour of the situation suddenly struck me, that _i_ had not the ghost of an idea what _he_ was like, nor would _he_ have any better chance of discovering _me!_ the room was fairly full of all sorts and conditions, as usual, and i glanced at each masculine figure in turn, only to reject it as a possibility of the one i sought. just as the big clock had clanged out twelve, i heard the high vivacious voices and laughter of children sounding down the corridor. at that moment a gentleman entered, two little girls clinging to his hands, and as i caught sight of the tall slim figure, with the clean-shaven, delicate, refined face, i said to myself, "_that's_ lewis carroll." he stood for a moment, head erect, glancing swiftly over the room, then, bending down, whispered something to one of the children; she, after a moment's pause, pointed straight at me. dropping their hands he came forward, and with that winning smile of his that utterly banished the oppressive sense of the oxford don, said simply, "i am mr. dodgson; i was to meet you, i think?" to which i as frankly smiled, and said, "how did you know me so soon?" "my little friend found you. i told her i had come to meet a young lady who knew fairies, and she fixed on you at once. but _i_ knew you before she spoke." this acquaintance ripened into a true, artistic friendship, which lasted till mr. dodgson's death. in his first letter to miss thomson he speaks of himself as one who for twenty years had found his one amusement in photographing from life--especially photographing children; he also said that he had made attempts ("most unsuccessfully") at drawing them. when he got to know her more intimately, he asked her to criticise his work, and when she wrote expressing her willingness to do so, he sent her a pile of sketch-books, through which she went most carefully, marking the mistakes, and criticising, wherever criticism seemed to be necessary. after this he might often have been seen in her studio, lying flat on his face, and drawing some child-model who had been engaged for his especial benefit. "i _love_ the effort to draw," he wrote in one of his letters to her, "but i utterly fail to please even my own eye--tho' now and then i seem to get somewhere _near_ a right line or two, when i have a live child to draw from. but i have no time left now for such things. in the next life, i do _hope_ we shall not only _see_ lovely forms, such as this world does not contain, but also be able to _draw_ them." but while he fully recognised the limits of his powers, he had great faith in his own critical judgment; and with good reason, for his perception of the beautiful in contour and attitude and grouping was almost unerring. all the drawings which miss thomson made for his "three sunsets" were submitted to his criticism, which descended to the smallest details. he concludes a letter to her, which contained the most elaborate and minute suggestions for the improvement of one of these pictures, with the following words: "i make all these suggestions with diffidence, feeling that i have _really no_ right at all, as an amateur, to criticise the work of a real artist." the following extract from another letter to miss thomson shows that seeking after perfection, that discontent with everything short of the best, which was so marked a feature of his character. she had sent him two drawings of the head of some child-friend of his:-- your note is a puzzle--you say that "no. would have been still more like if the paper had been exactly the same shade--but i'd no more at hand of the darker colour." had i given you the impression that i was in a _hurry_, and was willing to have no. _less_ good than it _might_ be made, so long as i could have it _quick?_ if i did, i'm very sorry: i never _meant_ to say a word like it: and, if you had written "i could make it still more like, on darker paper; but i've no more at hand. how long can you wait for me to get some?" i should have replied, "six weeks, or six _months_, if you prefer it!" i have already spoken of his love of nature, as opposed to the admiration for the morbid and abnormal. "i want you," he writes to miss thomson, "to do my fairy drawings from _life_. they would be very pretty, no doubt, done out of your own head, but they will be ten times as valuable if done from life. mr. furniss drew the pictures of 'sylvie' from life. mr. tenniel is the only artist, who has drawn for me, who resolutely refused to use a model, and declared he no more needed one than i should need a multiplication-table to work a mathematical problem!" on another occasion he urges the importance of using models, in order to avoid the similarity of features which would otherwise spoil the pictures: "cruikshank's splendid illustrations were terribly spoiled by his having only _one_ pretty female face in them all. leech settled down into _two_ female faces. du maurier, i think, has only _one_, now. all the ladies, and all the little girls in his pictures look like twin sisters." it is interesting to know that sir noel paton and mr. walter crane were, in lewis carroll's opinion, the most successful drawers of children: "there are but few artists who seem to draw the forms of children _con amore_. walter crane is perhaps the best (always excepting sir noel paton): but the thick outlines, which he insists on using, seem to take off a good deal from the beauty of the result." he held that no artist can hope to effect a higher type of beauty than that which life itself exhibits, as the following words show:-- i don't quite understand about fairies losing "grace," if too like human children. of course i grant that to be like some _actual_ child is to lose grace, because no living child is perfect in form: many causes have lowered the race from what god made it. but the _perfect_ human form, free from these faults, is surely equally applicable to men, and fairies, and angels? perhaps that is what you mean--that the artist can imagine, and design, more perfect forms than we ever find in life? i have already referred several times to miss ellen terry as having been one of mr. dodgson's friends, but he was intimate with the whole family, and used often to pay them a visit when he was in town. on may , , he records a very curious dream which he had about miss marion ("polly") terry:-- last night i had a dream which i record as a curiosity, so far as i know, in the literature of dreams. i was staying, with my sisters, in some suburb of london, and had heard that the terrys were staying near us, so went to call, and found mrs. terry at home, who told us that marion and florence were at the theatre, "the walter house," where they had a good engagement. "in that case," i said, "i'll go on there at once, and see the performance--and may i take polly with me?" "certainly," said mrs. terry. and there was polly, the child, seated in the room, and looking about nine or ten years old: and i was distinctly conscious of the fact, yet without any feeling of surprise at its incongruity, that i was going to take the _child_ polly with me to the theatre, to see the _grown-up_ polly act! both pictures--polly as a child, and polly as a woman, are, i suppose, equally clear in my ordinary waking memory: and it seems that in sleep i had contrived to give the two pictures separate individualities. of all the mathematical books which mr. dodgson wrote, by far the most elaborate, if not the most original, was "euclid and his modern rivals." the first edition was issued in , and a supplement, afterwards incorporated into the second edition, appeared in . this book, as the author says, has for its object to furnish evidence ( ) that it is essential for the purposes of teaching or examining in elementary geometry to employ one text-book only; ( ) that there are strong _a priori_ reasons for retaining in all its main features, and especially in its sequence and numbering of propositions, and in its treatment of parallels, the manual of euclid; and ( ) that no sufficient reasons have yet been shown for abandoning it in favour of any one of the modern manuals which have been offered as substitutes. the book is written in dramatic form, and relieved throughout by many touches in the author's happiest vein, which make it delightful not only to the scientific reader, but also to any one of average intelligence with the slightest sense of humour. whether the conclusions are accepted in their entirety or not, it is certain that the arguments are far more effective than if the writer had presented them in the form of an essay. mr. dodgson had a wide experience as a teacher and examiner, so that he knew well what he was writing about, and undoubtedly the appearance of this book has done very much to stay the hand of the innovator. the scene opens in a college study--time, midnight. minos, an examiner, is discovered seated between two immense piles of manuscripts. he is driven almost to distraction in his efforts to mark fairly the papers sent up, by reason of the confusion caused through the candidates offering various substitutes for euclid. rhadamanthus, another equally distracted examiner, comes to his room. the two men consult together for a time, and then rhadamanthus retires, and minos falls asleep. hereupon the ghost of euclid appears, and discusses with minos the reasons for retaining his manual as a whole, in its present order and arrangement. as they are mainly concerned with the wants of beginners, their attention is confined to books i. and ii. we must be content with one short extract from the dialogue:-- _euclid_.--it is, i think, a friend of yours who has amused himself by tabulating the various theorems which might be enunciated on the single subject of pairs of lines. how many did he make them out to be? _minos_.--about two hundred and fifty, i believe. _euclid_.--at that rate there would probably be within the limit of my first book--how many? _minos_.--a thousand at least. _euclid_.--what a popular school-book it will be! how boys will bless the name of the writer who first brings out the complete thousand! with a view to discussing and criticising his various modern rivals, euclid promises to send to minos the ghost of a german professor (herr niemand) who "has read all books, and is ready to defend any thesis, true or untrue." "a charming companion!" as minos drily remarks. this brings us to act ii., in which the manuals which reject euclid's treatment of parallels are dealt with one by one. those manuals which adopt it are reserved for act iii., scene i.; while in scene ii., "the syllabus of the association for the improvement of geometrical teaching," and wilson's "syllabus," come under review. only one or two extracts need be given, which, it is hoped, will suffice to illustrate the character and style of the book: act ii., scene v.--niemand and minos are arguing for and against henrici's "elementary geometry." _minos_.--i haven't quite done with points yet. i find an assertion that they never jump. do you think that arises from their having "position," which they feel might be compromised by such conduct? _niemand_.--i cannot tell without hearing the passage read. _minos_.--it is this: "a point, in changing its position on a curve, passes in moving from one position to another through all intermediate positions. it does not move by jumps." _niemand_.--that is quite true. _minos_.--tell me then--is every centre of gravity a point? _niemand_.--certainly. _minos_.--let us now consider the centre of gravity of a flea. does it-- _niemand (indignantly)_.--another word, and i shall vanish! i cannot waste a night on such trivialities. _minos_.--i can't resist giving you just _one_ more tit-bit--the definition of a square at page : "a quadrilateral which is a kite, a symmetrical trapezium, and a parallelogram is a square!" and now, farewell, henrici: "euclid, with all thy faults, i love thee still!" again, from act ii., scene vi.:-- _niemand_.--he (pierce, another "modern rival,") has a definition of direction which will, i think, be new to you. _(reads.)_ "the _direction of a line_ in any part is the direction of a point at that part from the next preceding point of the line!" _minos_.--that sounds mysterious. which way along a line are "preceding" points to be found? _niemand_.--_both ways._ he adds, directly afterwards, "a line has two different directions," &c. _minos_.--so your definition needs a postscript.... but there is yet another difficulty. how far from a point is the "next" point? _niemand_.--at an infinitely small distance, of course. you will find the matter fully discussed in my work on the infinitesimal calculus. _minos_.--a most satisfactory answer for a teacher to make to a pupil just beginning geometry! in act iv. euclid reappears to minos, "followed by the ghosts of archimedes, pythagoras, &c., who have come to see fair play." euclid thus sums up his case:-- "'the cock doth craw, the day doth daw,' and all respectable ghosts ought to be going home. let me carry with me the hope that i have convinced you of the necessity of retaining my order and numbering, and my method of treating straight lines, angles, right angles, and (most especially) parallels. leave me these untouched, and i shall look on with great contentment while other changes are made--while my proofs are abridged and improved--while alternative proofs are appended to mine--and while new problems and theorems are interpolated. in all these matters my manual is capable of almost unlimited improvement." in appendices i. and ii. mr. dodgson quotes the opinions of two eminent mathematical teachers, mr. todhunter and professor de morgan, in support of his argument. before leaving this subject i should like to refer to a very novel use of mr. dodgson's book--its employment in a school. mr. g. hopkins, mathematical master in the high school at manchester, u.s., and himself the author of a "manual of plane geometry," has so employed it in a class of boys aged from fourteen or fifteen upwards. he first called their attention to some of the more prominent difficulties relating to the question of parallels, put a copy of euclid in their hands, and let them see his treatment of them, and after some discussion placed before them mr. dodgson's "euclid and his modern rivals" and "new theory of parallels." perhaps it is the fact that american boys are sharper than english, but at any rate the youngsters are reported to have read the two books with an earnestness and a persistency that were as gratifying to their instructor as they were complimentary to mr. dodgson. in june of the same year an entry in the diary refers to a proposal in convocation to allow the university club to have a cricket-ground in the parks. this had been proposed in , and then rejected. mr. dodgson sent round to the common rooms copies of a poem on "the deserted parks," which had been published by messrs. parker in , and which was afterwards included in "notes by an oxford chiel." i quote the first few lines:-- museum! loveliest building of the plain where cherwell winds towards the distant main; how often have i loitered o'er thy green, where humble happiness endeared the scene! how often have i paused on every charm,-- the rustic couple walking arm in arm, the groups of trees, with seats beneath the shade for prattling babes and whisp'ring lovers made, the never-failing brawl, the busy mill, where tiny urchins vied in fistic skill. (two phrases only have that dusky race caught from the learned influence of the place; phrases in their simplicity sublime, "scramble a copper!" "please, sir, what's the time?") these round thy walks their cheerful influence shed; these were thy charms--but all these charms are fled, amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, and rude pavilions sadden all thy green; one selfish pastime grasps the whole domain, and half a faction swallows up the plain; adown thy glades, all sacrificed to cricket, the hollow-sounding bat now guards the wicket; sunk are thy mounds in shapeless level all, lest aught impede the swiftly rolling ball; and trembling, shrinking from the fatal blow, far, far away thy hapless children go. ill fares the place, to luxury a prey, where wealth accumulates, and minds decay: athletic sports may flourish or may fade, fashion may make them, even as it has made; but the broad parks, the city's joy and pride, when once destroyed can never be supplied! readers of "sylvie and bruno" will remember the way in which the invisible fairy-children save the drunkard from his evil life, and i have always felt that mr. dodgson meant sylvie to be something more than a fairy--a sort of guardian angel. that such an idea would not have been inconsistent with his way of looking at things is shown by the following letter: ch. ch., _july_, . my dear ethel,--i have been long intending to answer your letter of april th, chiefly as to your question in reference to mrs. n--'s letter about the little s--s [whose mother had recently died]. you say you don't see "how they can be guided aright by their dead mother, or how light can come from her." many people believe that our friends in the other world can and do influence us in some way, and perhaps even "guide" us and give us light to show us our duty. my own feeling is, it _may_ be so: but nothing has been revealed about it. that the angels do so _is_ revealed, and we may feel sure of _that_; and there is a beautiful fancy (for i don't think one can call it more) that "a mother who has died leaving a child behind her in this world, is allowed to be a sort of guardian angel to that child." perhaps mrs. n-- believes that. here are two other entries in the diary:-- _aug. th_.--worked from about . to . , and again from . to . (making / hours altogether) at an idea which occurred to me of finding limits for _pi_ by elementary trigonometry, for the benefit of the circle-squarers. _dec. th_.--invented a new way of working one word into another. i think of calling the puzzle "syzygies." i give the first three specimens:-- man } permanent } entice } send man on ice. ice. } acre } sacred } credentials } rely on acre. entirely } rely } prism } prismatic } dramatic } prove prism to be odious. melodrama } melodious } odious. } in february, , mr. dodgson proposed to the christ church "staff-salaries board," that as his tutorial work was lighter he should have £ instead of £ a year. it is not often that a man proposes to cut down _his own_ salary, but the suggestion in this case was intended to help the college authorities in the policy of retrenchment which they were trying to carry out. _may th_.--percival, president of trin. coll., who has cardinal newman as his guest, wrote to say that the cardinal would sit for a photo, to me, at trinity. but i could not take my photography there and he couldn't come to me: so nothing came of it. _aug. th_. [at eastbourne].--took ruth and maud to the circus (hutchinson and tayleure's--from america). i made friends with mr. tayleure, who took me to the tents of horses, and the caravan he lived in. and i added to my theatrical experiences by a chat with a couple of circus children--ada costello, aged , and polly (evans, i think), aged . i found ada in the outer tent, with the pony on which she was to perform--practising vaulting on to it, varied with somersaults on the ground. i showed her my wire puzzle, and ultimately gave it her, promising a duplicate to polly. both children seemed bright and happy, and they had pleasant manners. _sept. nd_.--mrs. h-- took me to dr. bell's (the old homoeopathic doctor) to hear lord radstock speak about "training children." it was a curious affair. first a very long hymn; then two very long extempore prayers (not by lord r--), which were strangely self-sufficient and wanting in reverence. lord r--'s remarks were commonplace enough, though some of his theories were new, but, i think, not true--_e.g.,_ that encouraging emulation in schoolboys, or desiring that they should make a good position in life, was un-christian. i escaped at the first opportunity after his speech, and went down on the beach, where i made acquaintance with a family who were banking up with sand the feet and legs of a pretty little girl perched on a sand-castle. i got her father to make her stand to be drawn. further along the beach a merry little mite began pelting me with sand; so i drew _her_ too. _nov. th_.--thought of a plan for simplifying money-orders, by making the sender fill up two duplicate papers, one of which he hands in to be transmitted by the postmaster--it containing a key-number which the receiver has to supply in _his_ copy to get the money. i think of suggesting this, and my plan for double postage on sunday, to the government. _dec. th_.--the idea occurred to me that a game might be made of letters, to be moved about on a chess-board till they form words. a little book, published during this year, "alice (a dramatic version of lewis carroll's 'alice'), and other fairy tales for children," by mrs. freiligrath-kroeker, was very successful, and, i understand, still has a regular sale. mr. dodgson most gladly gave his consent to the dramatisation of his story by so talented an authoress, and shortly afterwards mrs. kroeker brought out "through the looking-glass" in a similar form. _jan._ , .--to the lyceum to see "the cup" and "the corsican brothers." the first is exquisitely put on, and ellen terry as camma is the perfection of grace, and irving as the villain, and mr. terriss as the husband, were very good. but the piece wants substance. _jan._ _th_.--tried to go to oxford, but the line is blocked near didcot, so stayed another night in town. the next afternoon the line was reported clear, but the journey took hours! on the day before the dean of ch. ch. and his family were snowed up for hours near radley. _march_ _th_.--went to s. mary's and stayed for holy communion, and, as ffoulkes was alone, i mustered up courage to help him. i read the exhortation, and was pleased to find i did not once hesitate. i think i must try preaching again soon, as he has often begged me to do. _april_ _th_.--mr. greenwood approves my theory about general elections, and wants me to write on it in the _st. james's gazette_. (the letter appeared on may , .) _may_ _th_.--took the longest walk (i believe) i have ever done--round by dorchester, didcot and abingdon-- miles--took hours--no blisters, i rejoice to find, and i feel very little tired. _may_ _th_.--the row-loving men in college are beginning to be troublesome again, and last night some or of them, aided by out-college men, made a great disturbance, and regularly defied the censors. i have just been with the other tutors into hall, and heard the dean make an excellent speech to the house. some two or three will have to go down, and twelve or fifteen others will be punished in various ways. (a later note says): the punishments had to be modified--it turned out that the disturbers were nearly all out-college men. [illustration : dr. liddell. _from a photograph by hill & saunders._] mr. dodgson sent a letter to _the observer_ on this subject:-- sir,--your paper of may th contains a leading article on christ church, resting on so many mis-statements of fact that i venture to appeal to your sense of justice to allow me, if no abler writer has addressed you on the subject, an opportunity of correcting them. it will, i think, be found that in so doing i shall have removed the whole foundation on which the writer has based his attack on the house, after which i may contentedly leave the superstructure to take care of itself. "christ church is always provoking the adverse criticism of the outer world." the writer justifies this rather broad generalisation by quoting three instances of such provocation, which i will take one by one. at one time we are told that "the dean ... neglects his functions, and spends the bulk of his time in madeira." the fact is that the dean's absence from england more than twenty years ago during two successive winters was a sad necessity, caused by the appearance of symptoms of grave disease, from which he has now, under god's blessing, perfectly recovered. the second instance occurred eleven years ago, when some of the undergraduates destroyed some valuable statuary in the library. here the writer states that the dean first announced that criminal proceedings would be taken, and then, on discovering that the offenders were "highly connected," found himself "converted to the opinion that mercy is preferable to stern justice, and charity to the strict letter of the law." the facts are that the punishment awarded to the offenders was deliberated on and determined on by the governing body, consisting of the dean, the canons, and some twenty senior students; that their deliberations were most assuredly in no way affected by any thoughts of the offenders being "highly connected"; and that, when all was over, we had the satisfaction of seeing ourselves roundly abused in the papers on both sides, and charged with having been too lenient, and also with having been too severe. the third instance occurred the other night. some undergraduates were making a disturbance, and the junior censor "made his appearance in person upon the scene of riot," and "was contumeliously handled." here the only statement of any real importance, the alleged assault by christ church men on the junior censor, is untrue. the fact is that nearly all the disturbers were out-college men, and, though it is true that the censor was struck by a stone thrown from a window, the unenviable distinction of having thrown it belongs to no member of the house. i doubt if we have one single man here who would be capable of so base and cowardly an act. the writer then gives us a curious account of the present constitution of the house. the dean, whom he calls "the right reverend gentleman," is, "in a kind of way, master of the college. the canons, in a vague kind of way, are supposed to control the college." the senior students "dare not call their souls their own," and yet somehow dare "to vent their wrath" on the junior students. his hazy, mental picture of the position of the canons may be cleared up by explaining to him that the "control" they exercise is neither more nor less than that of any other six members of the governing body. the description of the students i pass over as not admitting any appeal to actual facts. the truth is that christ church stands convicted of two unpardonable crimes--being great, and having a name. such a place must always expect to find itself "a wide mark for scorn and jeers"--a target where the little and the nameless may display their skill. only the other day an m.p., rising to ask a question about westminster school, went on to speak of christ church, and wound up with a fierce attack on the ancient house. shall we blame him? do we blame the wanton schoolboy, with a pebble in his hand, all powerless to resist the alluring vastness of a barndoor? the essence of the article seems to be summed up in the following sentence: "at christ church all attempts to preserve order by the usual means have hitherto proved uniformly unsuccessful, and apparently remain equally fruitless." it is hard for one who, like myself, has lived here most of his life, to believe that this is seriously intended as a description of the place. however, as general statements can only be met by general statements, permit me, as one who has lived here for thirty years and has taught for five-and-twenty, to say that in my experience order has been the rule, disorder the rare exception, and that, if the writer of your leading article has had an equal amount of experience in any similar place of education, and has found a set of young men more gentlemanly, more orderly, and more pleasant in every way to deal with, than i have found here, i cannot but think him an exceptionally favoured mortal.--yours, &c. charles l. dodgson, _student and mathematical lecturer of christ church_. in july began an amusing correspondence between mr. dodgson and a "circle-squarer," which lasted several months. mr. dodgson sent the infatuated person, whom we will call mr. b--, a proof that the area of a circle is less than . the square of the radius. mr. b--replied, "your proof is not in accordance with euclid, it assumes that a circle may be considered as a rectangle, and that two right lines can enclose a space." he returned the proof, saying that he could not accept any of it as elucidating the exact area of a circle, or as euclidean. as mr. dodgson's method involved a slight knowledge of trigonometry, and he had reason to suspect that mr. b--was entirely ignorant of that subject, he thought it worth while to put him to the test by asking him a few questions upon it, but the circle-squarer, with commendable prudence, declined to discuss anything not euclidean. mr. dodgson then wrote to him, "taking leave of the subject, until he should be willing to enlarge his field of knowledge to the elements of algebraical geometry." mr. b--replied, with unmixed contempt, "algebraical geometry is all moon-shine." _he_ preferred "weighing cardboard" as a means of ascertaining exact truth in mathematical research. finally he suggested that mr. dodgson might care to join in a prize-competition to be got up among the followers of euclid, and as he apparently wished him to understand that he (mr. b--) did not think much of his chances of getting a prize, mr. dodgson considered that the psychological moment for putting an end to the correspondence had arrived. meanwhile he was beginning to feel his regular college duties a terrible clog upon his literary work. the studentship which he held was not meant to tie him down to lectures and examinations. such work was very well for a younger man; he could best serve "the house" by his literary fame. _july_ _th._--came to a more definite decision than i have ever yet done--that it is about time to resign the mathematical lectureship. my chief motive for holding on has been to provide money for others (for myself, i have been many years able to retire), but even the £ a year i shall thus lose i may fairly hope to make by the additional time i shall have for book-writing. i think of asking the g.b. (governing body) next term to appoint my successor, so that i may retire at the end of the year, when i shall be close on fifty years old, and shall have held the lectureship for exactly years. (i had the honourmen for the last two terms of , but was not full lecturer till hilary, .) _oct_. _th_.--i have just taken an important step in life, by sending to the dean a proposal to resign the mathematical lectureship at the end of this year. i shall now have my whole time at my own disposal, and, if god gives me life and continued health and strength, may hope, before my powers fail, to do some worthy work in writing--partly in the cause of mathematical education, partly in the cause of innocent recreation for children, and partly, i hope (though so utterly unworthy of being allowed to take up such work) in the cause of religious thought. may god bless the new form of life that lies before me, that i may use it according to his holy will! _oct. st_.--i had a note in the evening from the dean, to say that he had seen the censors on the subject of my proposed resignation at the end of the year, and that arrangements should be made, as far as could be done, to carry out my wishes; and kindly adding an expression of regret at losing my services, but allowing that i had "earned a right to retirement." so my lectureship seems to be near its end. _nov. th_.--i find by my journal that i gave my _first_ euclid lecture in the lecture-room on monday, january , . it consisted of twelve men, of whom nine attended. this morning, i have given what is most probably my _last_: the lecture is now reduced to nine, of whom all attended on monday: this morning being a saint's day, the attendance was voluntary, and only two appeared--e.h. morris, and g. lavie. i was lecturer when the _father_ of the latter took his degree, viz., in . there is a sadness in coming to the end of anything in life. man's instincts cling to the life that will never end. _may , ._--called on mrs. r--. during a good part of the evening i read _the times_, while the party played a round game of spelling words--a thing i will never join in. rational conversation and _good_ music are the only things which, to me, seem worth the meeting for, for grown-up people. _june st._--went out with charsley, and did four miles on one of his velocimans, very pleasantly. the velociman was an early and somewhat cumbrous form of tricycle; mr. dodgson made many suggestions for its improvement. he never attempted to ride a bicycle, however, but, in accordance with his own dictum, "in youth, try a bicycle, in age, buy a tricycle," confined himself to the three-wheeled variety. [illustration: xi oxford types from a photograph by a.t. shrimpton] _nov. th_.--whitehead, of trinity, told us a charming story in common room of a father and son. they came up together: the son got into a college--the father had to go to new inn hall: the son passed responsions, while his father had to put off: finally, the father failed in mods and has gone down: the son will probably take his degree, and may then be able to prepare his father for another try. among the coloured cartoons in shrimpton's window at oxford there used to be, when i was up, a picture which i think referred to this story. _nov. rd._--spent two hours "invigilating" in the rooms of w.j. grant (who has broken his collar-bone, and is allowed to do his greats papers in this way) while he dictated his answers to another undergraduate, pakenham, who acted as scribe. _nov. th_.--dined with fowler (now president of c.c.c.) in hall, to meet ranken. both men are now mostly bald, with quite grey hair: yet how short a time it seems since we were undergraduates together at whitby! (in ). _dec th._--a common room meeting. fresh powers were given to the wine committee, and then a new curator elected. i was proposed by holland, and seconded by harcourt, and accepted office with no light heart: there will be much trouble and thought needed to work it satisfactorily, but it will take me out of myself a little, and so may be a real good--my life was tending to become too much that of a selfish recluse. during this year he composed the words of a song, "dreamland." the air was _dreamed_ by his friend, the late rev. c. e. hutchinson, of chichester. the history of the dream is here given in the words of the dreamer:-- i found myself seated, with many others, in darkness, in a large amphitheatre. deep stillness prevailed. a kind of hushed expectancy was upon us. we sat awaiting i know not what. before us hung a vast and dark curtain, and between it and us was a kind of stage. suddenly an intense wish seized me to look upon the forms of some of the heroes of past days. i cannot say whom in particular i longed to behold, but, even as i wished, a faint light flickered over the stage, and i was aware of a silent procession of figures moving from right to left across the platform in front of me. as each figure approached the left-hand corner it turned and gazed at me, and i knew (by what means i cannot say) its name. one only i recall--saint george; the light shone with a peculiar blueish lustre on his shield and helmet as he turned and slowly faced me. the figures were shadowy, and floated like mist before me; as each one disappeared an invisible choir behind the curtain sang the "dream music." i awoke with the melody ringing in my ears, and the words of the last line complete--"i see the shadows falling, and slowly pass away." the rest i could not recall. [illustration: dreamland--facsimile of words and music.] dreamland. words by lewis carroll. music by c.e. hutchinson. when midnight mists are creeping and all the land is sleeping around me tread the mighty dead, and slowly pass away. lo, warriors, saints, and sages, from out the vanished ages, with solemn pace and reverend face appear and pass away. the blaze of noonday splendour, the twilight soft and tender, may charm the eye: yet they shall die, shall die and pass away but here, in dreamland's centre, no spoiler's hand may enter, these visions fair, this radiance rare, shall never pass away i see the shadows falling, the forms of eld recalling; around me tread the mighty dead, and slowly pass away one of the best services to education which mr. dodgson performed was his edition of "euclid i. and ii.," which was published in . in writing "euclid and his modern rivals," he had criticised somewhat severely the various substitutes proposed for euclid, so far as they concerned beginners; but at the same time he had admitted that within prescribed limits euclid's text is capable of amendment and improvement, and this is what he attempted to do in this book. that he was fully justified is shown by the fact that during the years - the book ran through eight editions. in the introduction he enumerates, under the three headings of "additions," "omissions," and "alterations," the chief points of difference between his own and the ordinary editions of euclid, with his reasons for adopting them. they are the outcome of long experience, and the most conservative of teachers would readily accept them. the proof of i. , for example, is decidedly better and more satisfactory than the ordinary proof, and the introduction of the definition of "projection" certainly simplifies the cumbrous enunciations of ii. and . again, the alternative proof of ii. , suggested in the introduction, is valuable, and removes all excuse for omitting this proposition, as is commonly clone. the figures used are from the blocks prepared for the late mr. todhunter's well-known edition of euclid, to which mr. dodgson's manual forms an excellent stepping-stone. at the beginning of he went up to town to see the collection of d. g. rossetti's pictures in the burlington gallery. he was especially struck with "found," which he thus describes-- a picture of a man finding, in the streets of london, a girl he had loved years before in the days of her innocence. she is huddled up against the wall, dressed in gaudy colours, and trying to turn away her agonised face, while he, holding her wrists, is looking down with an expression of pain and pity, condemnation and love, which is one of the most marvellous things i have ever seen done in painting. _jan_. , [his birthday].--i cannot say i feel much older at than at ! had my first "tasting-luncheon"; it seemed to give great satisfaction. [the object of the curator's "tasting-luncheon" was, of course, to give members of common room an opportunity of deciding what wines should be bought.] _march_ _th._--went up to town to fulfil my promise to lucy a.--: to take her for her _first_ visit to the theatre. we got to the lyceum in good time, and the play was capitally acted. i had hinted to beatrice (miss ellen terry) how much she could add to lucy's pleasure by sending round a "carte" of herself; she sent a cabinet. she is certainly an adept in giving gifts that gratify. _april_ _d_.--tried another long walk-- miles, to besilsleigh, fyfield, kingston, bagpuize, frilford, marcham, and abingdon. the last half of the way was in the face of wind, rain, snow, and hail. was too lame to go into hall. * * * * * chapter vi ( - ) "the profits of authorship"--"rhyme? and reason?"--the common room cat--visit to jersey--purity of elections--parliamentary representation--various literary projects--letters to miss e. rix--being happy--"a tangled tale"--religious arguments--the "alice" operetta--"alice's adventures underground"--"the game of logic"--mr. harry furniss. in lewis carroll was advised to make a stand against the heavy discount allowed by publishers to booksellers, and by booksellers to the public. accordingly the following notice began to appear in all his books: "in selling mr. lewis carroll's books to the trade, messrs. macmillan and co. will abate d. in the shilling (no odd copies), and allow per cent, discount within six months, and per cent, for cash. in selling them to the public (for cash only) they will allow per cent, discount." it was a bold step to take, and elicited some loud expressions of disapproval. "rather than buy on the terms mr. lewis carroll offers," "a firm of london booksellers" wrote in _the bookseller_ of august th, "the trade will do well to refuse to take copies of his books, new or old, so long as he adheres to the terms he has just announced to the trade for their delectation and delight." on the other hand, an editorial, which appeared in the same number of _the bookseller,_ expressed warm approval of the innovation. to avoid all possible misconceptions, the author fully explained his views in a little pamphlet on "the profits of authorship." he showed that the bookseller makes as much profit out of every volume he sells (assuming the buyer to pay the full published price, which he did in those days more readily than he does to-day) as author and publisher together, whereas his share in the work is very small. he does not say much about the author's part in the work--that it is a very heavy one goes without saying--but in considering the publisher's share he says:-- the publisher contributes about as much as the bookseller in time and bodily labour, but in mental toil and trouble a great deal more. i speak with some personal knowledge of the matter, having myself, for some twenty years, inflicted on that most patient and painstaking firm, messrs. macmillan and co., about as much wear and worry as ever publishers have lived through. the day when they undertake a book for me is a _dies nefastus_ for them. from that day till the book is out--an interval of some two or three years on an average--there is no pause in "the pelting of the pitiless storm" of directions and questions on every conceivable detail. to say that every question gets a courteous and thoughtful reply--that they are still outside a lunatic asylum--and that they still regard me with some degree of charity--is to speak volumes in praise of their good temper and of their health, bodily and mental. i think the publisher's claim on the profits is on the whole stronger than the booksellers. "rhyme? and reason?" appeared at christmas; the dedicatory verses, inscribed "to a dear child: in memory of golden summer hours and whispers of a summer sea," were addressed to a little friend of the author's, miss gertrude chataway. one of the most popular poems in the book is "hiawatha's photographing," a delicious parody of longfellow's "hiawatha." "in an age of imitation," says lewis carroll, in a note at the head, "i can claim no special merit for this slight attempt at doing what is known to be so easy." it is not every one who has read this note who has observed that it is really in the same metre as the poem below it. another excellent parody, "atalanta in camden-town," exactly hit off the style of that poet who stands alone and unapproached among the poets of the day, and whom mr. dodgson used to call "the greatest living master of language." "fame's penny trumpet," affectionately dedicated to all "original researchers" who pant for "endowment," was an attack upon the vivisectionists, who preach of justice--plead with tears that love and mercy should abound-- while marking with complacent ears the moaning of some tortured hound. lewis carroll thus addresses them:-- fill all the air with hungry wails-- "reward us, ere we think or write! without your gold mere knowledge fails to sate the swinish appetite!" and, where great plato paced serene, or newton paused with wistful eye, rush to the chase with hoofs unclean and babel-clamour of the stye! be yours the pay: be theirs the praise: we will not rob them of their due, nor vex the ghosts of other days by naming them along with you. they sought and found undying fame: they toiled not for reward nor thanks: their cheeks are hot with honest shame for you, the modern mountebanks! "for auld lang syne" the author sent a copy of his book to mrs. hargreaves (miss alice liddell), accompanied by a short note. christ church, _december_ , . dear mrs. hargreaves,--perhaps the shortest day in the year is not _quite_ the most appropriate time for recalling the long dreamy summer afternoons of ancient times; but anyhow if this book gives you half as much pleasure to receive as it does me to send, it will be a success indeed. wishing you all happiness at this happy season, i am, sincerely yours, c. l. dodgson. the beginning of was chiefly occupied in common room business. the curatorship seems to have been anything but a sinecure. besides weightier responsibilities, it involved the care of the common room cat! in this case the "care" ultimately killed the cat--but not until it had passed the span of life usually allotted to those animals, and beyond which their further existence is equally a nuisance to themselves and to every one else. as to the best way of "terminating its sublunary existence," mr. dodgson consulted two surgeons, one of whom was sir james paget. i do not know what method was finally adopted, but i am sure it was one that gave no pain to pussy's nerves, and as little as possible to her feelings. on march th there was a debate in congregation on the proposed admission of women to some of the honour schools at oxford. this was one of the many subjects on which mr. dodgson wrote a pamphlet. during the debate he made one of his few speeches, and argued strongly against the proposal, on the score of the injury to health which it would inflict upon the girl-undergraduates. later in the month he and the rev. e.f. sampson, tutor of christ church, paid a visit to jersey, seeing various friends, notably the rev. f.h. atkinson, an old college friend of mr. dodgson's, who had helped him when he was editor of _college rhymes_. i quote a few lines from a letter of his to mr. atkinson, as showing his views on matrimony:-- so you have been for twelve years a married man, while i am still a lonely old bachelor! and mean to keep so, for the matter of that. college life is by no means unmixed misery, though married life has no doubt many charms to which i am a stranger. a note in his diary on may th shows one of the changes in his way of life which advancing years forced him to make:-- wrote to -- (who had invited me to dine) to beg off, on the ground that, in my old age, i find dinner parties more and more fatiguing. this is quite a new departure. i much grudge giving an evening (even if it were not tiring) to bandying small-talk with dull people. the next extract i give does not look much like old age! i called on mrs. m--. she was out; and only one maid in, who, having come to the gate to answer the bell, found the door blown shut on her return. the poor thing seemed really alarmed and distressed. however, i got a man to come from a neighbouring yard with a ladder, and got in at the drawing-room window--a novel way of entering a friend's house! oddly enough, almost exactly the same thing happened to him in : "the door blew shut, with the maid outside, and no one in the house. i got the cook of the next house to let me go through their premises, and with the help of a pair of steps got over the wall between the two back-yards." in july there appeared an article in the _st. james's gazette_ on the subject of "parliamentary elections," written by mr. dodgson. it was a subject in which he was much interested, and a few years before he had contributed a long letter on the "purity of elections" to the same newspaper. i wish i had space to give both in full; as things are, a summary and a few extracts are all i dare attempt. the writer held that there are a great number of voters, and _pari passu_ a great number of constituencies, that like to be on the winning side, and whose votes are chiefly influenced by that consideration. the ballot-box has made it practically impossible for the individual voter to know which is going to be the winning side, but after the first few days of a general election, one side or the other has generally got a more or less decided advantage, and a weak-kneed constituency is sorely tempted to swell the tide of victory. but this is not all. the evil extends further than to the single constituency; nay, it extends further than to a single general election; it constitutes a feature in our national history; it is darkly ominous for the future of england. so long as general elections are conducted as at present we shall be liable to oscillations of political power, like those of and , but of ever-increasing violence--one parliament wholly at the mercy of one political party, the next wholly at the mercy of the other--while the government of the hour, joyfully hastening to undo all that its predecessors have done, will wield a majority so immense that the fate of every question will be foredoomed, and debate will be a farce; in one word, we shall be a nation living from hand to mouth, and with no settled principle--an army, whose only marching orders will be "right about face!" his remedy was that the result of each single election should be kept secret till the general election is over:-- it surely would involve no practical difficulty to provide that the boxes of voting papers should be sealed up by a government official and placed in such custody as would make it impossible to tamper with them; and that when the last election had been held they should be opened, the votes counted, and the results announced. the article on "parliamentary elections" proposed much more sweeping alterations. the opening paragraph will show its general purport:-- the question, how to arrange our constituencies and conduct our parliamentary elections so as to make the house of commons, as far as possible, a true index of the state of opinion in the nation it professes to represent, is surely equal in importance to any that the present generation has had to settle. and the leap in the dark, which we seem about to take in a sudden and vast extension of the franchise, would be robbed of half its terrors could we feel assured that each political party will be duly represented in the next parliament, so that every side of a question will get a fair hearing. the axioms on which his scheme was based were as follows:-- ( ) that each member of parliament should represent approximately the same number of electors. ( ) that the minority of the two parties into which, broadly speaking, each district may be divided, should be adequately represented. ( ) that the waste of votes, caused by accidentally giving one candidate more than he needs and leaving another of the same party with less than he needs, should be, if possible, avoided. ( ) that the process of marking a ballot-paper should be reduced to the utmost possible simplicity, to meet the case of voters of the very narrowest mental calibre. ( ) that the process of counting votes should be as simple as possible. then came a precise proposal. i do not pause to compare it in detail with the suggestions of mr. hare, mr. courtney, and others:-- i proceed to give a summary of rules for the method i propose. form districts which shall return three, four, or more members, in proportion to their size. let each elector vote for one candidate only. when the poll is closed, divide the total number of votes by the number of members to be returned _plus_ one, and take the next greater integer as "quota." let the returning officer publish the list of candidates, with the votes given for each, and declare as "returned" each that has obtained the quota. if there are still members to return, let him name a time when all the candidates shall appear before him; and each returned member may then formally assign his surplus votes to whomsoever of the other candidates he will, while the other candidates may in like manner assign their votes to one another. this method would enable each of the two parties in a district to return as many members as it could muster "quotas," no matter how the votes were distributed. if, for example, , were the quota, and the "reds" mustered , votes, they could return three members; for, suppose they had four candidates, and that a had , votes, b , , c , , d , , a would simply have to assign , votes to b and , to c; while d, being hopeless of success, would naturally let c have his , also. there would be no risk of a seat being left vacant through two candidates of the same party sharing a quota between them--an unwritten law would soon come to be recognised--that the one with fewest votes should give place to the other. and, with candidates of two opposite parties, this difficulty could not arise at all; one or the other could always be returned by the surplus votes of his party. some notes from the diary for march, , are worth reproducing here:-- _march_ _st_.--sent off two letters of literary importance, one to mrs. hargreaves, to ask her consent to my publishing the original ms. of "alice" in facsimile (the idea occurred to me the other day); the other to mr. h. furniss, a very clever illustrator in _punch_, asking if he is open to proposals to draw pictures for me. the letter to mrs. hargreaves, which, it will be noticed, was earlier in date than the short note already quoted in this chapter, ran as follows:-- my dear mrs. hargreaves,--i fancy this will come to you almost like a voice from the dead, after so many years of silence, and yet those years have made no difference that i can perceive in _my_ clearness of memory of the days when we _did_ correspond. i am getting to feel what an old man's failing memory is as to recent events and new friends, (for instance, i made friends, only a few weeks ago, with a very nice little maid of about twelve, and had a walk with her--and now i can't recall either of her names!), but my mental picture is as vivid as ever of one who was, through so many years, my ideal child-friend. i have had scores of child-friends since your time, but they have been quite a different thing. however, i did not begin this letter to say all _that_. what i want to ask is, would you have any objection to the original ms. book of "alice's adventures" (which i suppose you still possess) being published in facsimile? the idea of doing so occurred to me only the other day. if, on consideration, you come to the conclusion that you would rather _not_ have it done, there is an end of the matter. if, however, you give a favourable reply, i would be much obliged if you would lend it me (registered post, i should think, would be safest) that i may consider the possibilities. i have not seen it for about twenty years, so am by no means sure that the illustrations may not prove to be so awfully bad that to reproduce them would be absurd. there can be no doubt that i should incur the charge of gross egoism in publishing it. but i don't care for that in the least, knowing that i have no such motive; only i think, considering the extraordinary popularity the books have had (we have sold more than , of the two), there must be many who would like to see the original form. always your friend, c.l. dodgson. the letter to harry furniss elicited a most satisfactory reply. mr. furniss said that he had long wished to illustrate one of lewis carroll's books, and that he was quite prepared to undertake the work ("sylvie and bruno"). [illustration: h. furniss. _from a photograph_.] two more notes from the diary, referring to the same month follow:-- _march th_.--a great convocation assembled in the theatre, about a proposed grant for physiology, opposed by many (i was one) who wish restrictions to be enacted as to the practice of vivisection for research. liddon made an excellent speech against the grant, but it was carried by to . _march th_.--never before have i had so many literary projects on hand at once. for curiosity, i will here make a list of them. ( ) supplement to "euclid and modern rivals." ( ) nd edition of "euc. and mod. rivals." ( ) a book of math. curiosities, which i think of calling "pillow problems, and other math. trifles." this will contain problems worked out in the dark, logarithms without tables, sines and angles do., a paper i am now writing on "infinities and infinitesimals," condensed long multiplication, and perhaps others. ( ) euclid v. ( ) "plain facts for circle-squarers," which is nearly complete, and gives actual proof of limits . , . . ( ) a symbolical logic, treated by my algebraic method. ( ) "a tangled tale." ( ) a collection of games and puzzles of my devising, with fairy pictures by miss e.g. thomson. this might also contain my "mem. tech." for dates; my "cipher-writing" scheme for letter-registration, &c., &c. ( ) nursery alice. ( ) serious poems in "phantasmagoria." ( ) "alice's adventures underground." ( ) "girl's own shakespeare." i have begun on "tempest." ( ) new edition of "parliamentary representation." ( ) new edition of euc. i., ii. ( ) the new child's book, which mr. furniss is to illustrate. i have settled on no name as yet, but it will perhaps be "sylvie and bruno." i have other shadowy ideas, _e.g._, a geometry for boys, a vol. of essays on theological points freely and plainly treated, and a drama on "alice" (for which mr. mackenzie would write music): but the above is a fair example of "too many irons in the fire!" a letter written about this time to his friend, miss edith rix, gives some very good hints about how to work, all the more valuable because he had himself successfully carried them out. the first hint was as follows:-- when you have made a thorough and reasonably long effort, to understand a thing, and still feel puzzled by it, _stop_, you will only hurt yourself by going on. put it aside till the next morning; and if _then_ you can't make it out, and have no one to explain it to you, put it aside entirely, and go back to that part of the subject which you _do_ understand. when i was reading mathematics for university honours, i would sometimes, after working a week or two at some new book, and mastering ten or twenty pages, get into a hopeless muddle, and find it just as bad the next morning. my rule was _to begin the book again_. and perhaps in another fortnight i had come to the old difficulty with impetus enough to get over it. or perhaps not. i have several books that i have begun over and over again. my second hint shall be--never leave an unsolved difficulty _behind_. i mean, don't go any further in that book till the difficulty is conquered. in this point, mathematics differs entirely from most other subjects. suppose you are reading an italian book, and come to a hopelessly obscure sentence--don't waste too much time on it, skip it, and go on; you will do very well without it. but if you skip a _mathematical_ difficulty, it is sure to crop up again: you will find some other proof depending on it, and you will only get deeper and deeper into the mud. my third hint is, only go on working so long as the brain is _quite_ clear. the moment you feel the ideas getting confused leave off and rest, or your penalty will be that you will never learn mathematics _at all_! two more letters to the same friend are, i think, deserving of a place here:-- eastbourne, _sept_. , . my dear edith,--one subject you touch on--"the resurrection of the body"--is very interesting to me, and i have given it much thought (i mean long ago). _my_ conclusion was to give up the _literal_ meaning of the _material_ body altogether. _identity_, in some mysterious way, there evidently is; but there is no resisting the scientific fact that the actual _material_ usable for _physical_ bodies has been used over and over again--so that each atom would have several owners. the mere solitary fact of the existence of _cannibalism_ is to my mind a sufficient _reductio ad absurdum_ of the theory that the particular set of atoms i shall happen to own at death (changed every seven years, they say) will be mine in the next life--and all the other insuperable difficulties (such as people born with bodily defects) are swept away at once if we accept s. paul's "spiritual body," and his simile of the grain of corn. i have read very little of "sartor resartus," and don't know the passage you quote: but i accept the idea of the material body being the "dress" of the spiritual--a dress needed for material life. ch. ch., _dec_. , . dear edith,--i have been a severe sufferer from _logical_ puzzles of late. i got into a regular tangle about the "import of propositions," as the ordinary logical books declare that "all _x_ is _z_" doesn't even _hint_ that any _x_'s exist, but merely that the qualities are so inseparable that, if ever _x_ occurs, _z_ must occur also. as to "some _x_ is _z_" they are discreetly silent; and the living authorities i have appealed to, including our professor of logic, take opposite sides! some say it means that the qualities are so connected that, if any _x_'s _did_ exist, some _must_ be _z_--others that it only means compatibility, _i.e.,_ that some _might_ be _z_, and they would go on asserting, with perfect belief in their truthfulness, "some boots are made of brass," even if they had all the boots in the world before them, and knew that _none_ were so made, merely because there is no inherent impossibility in making boots of brass! isn't it bewildering? i shall have to mention all this in my great work on logic--but _i_ shall take the line "any writer may mean exactly what he pleases by a phrase so long as he explains it beforehand." but i shall not venture to assert "some boots are made of brass" till i have found a pair! the professor of logic came over one day to talk about it, and we had a long and exciting argument, the result of which was "_x -x_"--a magnitude which you will be able to evaluate for yourself. c. l. dodgson. as an example of the good advice mr. dodgson used to give his young friends, the following letter to miss isabel standen will serve excellently:-- eastbourne, _aug_. , . i can quite understand, and much sympathise with, what you say of your feeling lonely, and not what you can honestly call "happy." now i am going to give you a bit of philosophy about that--my own experience is, that _every_ new form of life we try is, just at first, irksome rather than pleasant. my first day or two at the sea is a little depressing; i miss the christ church interests, and haven't taken up the threads of interest here; and, just in the same way, my first day or two, when i get back to christ church, i miss the seaside pleasures, and feel with unusual clearness the bothers of business-routine. in all such cases, the true philosophy, i believe, is "_wait_ a bit." our mental nerves seem to be so adjusted that we feel _first_ and most keenly, the _dis_-comforts of any new form of life; but, after a bit, we get used to them, and cease to notice them; and _then_ we have time to realise the enjoyable features, which at first we were too much worried to be conscious of. suppose you hurt your arm, and had to wear it in a sling for a month. for the first two or three days the discomfort of the bandage, the pressure of the sling on the neck and shoulder, the being unable to use the arm, would be a constant worry. you would feel as if all comfort in life were gone; after a couple of days you would be used to the new sensations, after a week you perhaps wouldn't notice them at all; and life would seem just as comfortable as ever. so my advice is, don't think about loneliness, or happiness, or unhappiness, for a week or two. then "take stock" again, and compare your feelings with what they were two weeks previously. if they have changed, even a little, for the better you are on the right track; if not, we may begin to suspect the life does not suit you. but what i want _specially_ to urge is that there's no use in comparing one's feelings between one day and the next; you must allow a reasonable interval, for the _direction of_ change to show itself. sit on the beach, and watch the waves for a few seconds; you say "the tide is coming in "; watch half a dozen successive waves, and you may say "the last is the lowest; it is going out." wait a quarter of an hour, and compare its _average_ place with what it was at first, and you will say "no, it is coming in after all." ... with love, i am always affectionately yours, c. l. dodgson. the next event to chronicle in lewis carroll's life is the publication, by messrs. macmillan, of "a tangled tale," a series of mathematical problems which had originally appeared in the _monthly packet_. in addition to the problems themselves, the author added their correct solutions, with criticisms on the solutions, correct or otherwise, which the readers of the _monthly packet_ had sent in to him. with some people this is the most popular of all his books; it is certainly the most successful attempt he ever made to combine mathematics and humour. the book was illustrated by mr. a.b. frost, who entered most thoroughly into the spirit of the thing. one of his pictures, "balbus was assisting his mother-in-law to convince the dragon," is irresistibly comic. a short quotation will better enable the reader to understand the point of the joke:-- balbus was waiting for them at the hotel; the journey down had tried him, he said; so his two pupils had been the round of the place, in search of lodgings, without the old tutor who had been their inseparable companion from their childhood. they had named him after the hero of their latin exercise-book, which overflowed with anecdotes about that versatile genius--anecdotes whose vagueness in detail was more than compensated by their sensational brilliance. "balbus has overcome all his enemies" had been marked by their tutor, in the margin of the book, "successful bravery." in this way he had tried to extract a moral from every anecdote about balbus--sometimes one of warning, as in "balbus had borrowed a healthy dragon," against which he had written, "rashness in speculation "--sometimes of encouragement, as in the words, "influence of sympathy in united action," which stood opposite to the anecdote "balbus was assisting his mother-in-law to convince the dragon"--and sometimes it dwindled down to a single word, such as "prudence," which was all he could extract from the touching record that "balbus, having scorched the tail of the dragon, went away." his pupils liked the short morals best, as it left them more room for marginal illustrations, and in this instance they required all the space they could get to exhibit the rapidity of the hero's departure. balbus and his pupils go in search of lodgings, which are only to be found in a certain square; at no. , one of the pupils supplements the usual questions by asking the landlady if the cat scratches:-- the landlady looked round suspiciously, as if to make sure the cat was not listening. "i will not deceive you, gentlemen," she said. "it _do_ scratch, but not without you pulls its whiskers! it'll never do it," she repeated slowly, with a visible effort to recall the exact words of some written agreement between herself and the cat, "without you pulls its whiskers!" "much may be excused in a cat so treated," said balbus as they left the house and crossed to no. , leaving the landlady curtesying on the doorstep, and still murmuring to herself her parting words, as if they were a form of blessing--"not without you pulls its whiskers!" [illustration: _from a crayon drawing by the rev. h.c. gaye_.] they secure one room at each of the following numbers--the square contains doors on each side--nine, twenty-five, fifty-two, and seventy-three. they require three bedrooms and one day-room, and decide to take as day-room the one that gives them the least walking to do to get to it. the problem, of course, is to discover which room they adopted as the day-room. there are ten such "knots" in the book, and few, if any of them, can be untied without a good deal of thought. owing, probably, to the strain of incessant work, mr. dodgson about this period began to be subject to a very peculiar, yet not very uncommon, optical delusion, which takes the form of seeing moving fortifications. considering the fact that he spent a good twelve hours out of every twenty-four in reading and writing, and that he was now well over fifty years old, it was not surprising that nature should begin to rebel at last, and warn him of the necessity of occasional rest. some verses on "wonderland" by "one who loves alice," appeared in the christmas number of _sylvia's home journal_, . they were written by miss m.e. manners, and, as lewis carroll himself admired them, they will, i think, be read with interest:-- wonderland. how sweet those happy days gone by, those days of sunny weather, when alice fair, with golden hair, and we--were young together;-- when first with eager gaze we scann'd the page which told of wonderland. on hearthrug in the winter-time we lay and read it over; we read it in the summer's prime, amidst the hay and clover. the trees, by evening breezes fann'd, murmured sweet tales of wonderland. we climbed the mantelpiece, and broke the jars of dresden china; in jabberwocky tongue we spoke, we called the kitten "dinah!" and, oh! how earnestly we planned to go ourselves to wonderland. the path was fringed with flowers rare, with rainbow colours tinted; the way was "up a winding stair," our elders wisely hinted. we did not wish to understand _bed_ was the road to wonderland. we thought we'd wait till we should grow stronger as well as bolder, but now, alas! full well we know we're only growing older. the key held by a childish hand, fits best the door of wonderland. yet still the hatter drinks his tea, the duchess finds a moral, and tweedledum and tweedledee forget in fright their quarrel. the walrus still weeps on the sand, that strews the shores of wonderland. and other children feel the spell which once we felt before them, and while the well-known tale we tell, we watch it stealing o'er them: before their dazzled eyes expand the glorious realms of wonderland. yes, "time is fleet," and we have gained years more than twice eleven; alice, dear child, hast thou remained "exactually" seven? with "proper aid," "two" could command time to go back in wonderland. or have the years (untouched by charms), with joy and sorrow laden, rolled by, and brought unto thy arms a dainty little maiden? another alice, who shall stand by thee to hear of wonderland. carroll! accept the heartfelt thanks of children of all ages, of those who long have left their ranks, yet still must love the pages written by him whose magic wand called up the scenes of wonderland. long mayst thou live, the sound to hear which most thy heart rejoices, of children's laughter ringing clear, and children's merry voices, until for thee an angel-hand draws back the veil of wonderland. one who loves "alice." three letters, written at the beginning of to miss edith rix, to whom he had dedicated "a tangled tale," are interesting as showing the deeper side of his character:-- guildford, _jan_. , . my dear edith,--i have been meaning for some time to write to you about agnosticism, and other matters in your letter which i have left unnoticed. and yet i do not know, much as what you say interests me, and much as i should like to be of use to any wandering seeker after truth, that i am at all likely to say anything that will be new to you and of any practical use. the moral science student you describe must be a beautiful character, and if, as you say, she lives a noble life, then, even though she does not, as yet, see any god, for whose sake she can do things, i don't think you need be unhappy about her. "when thou wast under the fig tree, i saw thee," is often supposed to mean that nathanael had been _praying_, praying no doubt ignorantly and imperfectly, but yet using the light he had: and it seems to have been accepted as faith in the messiah. more and more it seems to me (i hope you won't be _very_ much shocked at me as an ultra "broad" churchman) that what a person _is_ is of more importance in god's sight than merely what propositions he affirms or denies. _you_, at any rate, can do more good among those new friends of yours by showing them what a christian _is_, than by telling them what a christian _believes_.... i have a deep dread of argument on religious topics: it has many risks, and little chance of doing good. you and i will never _argue_, i hope, on any controverted religious question: though i do hope we may see the day when we may freely _speak_ of such things, even where we happen to hold different views. but even then i should have no inclination, if we did differ, to conclude that my view was the right one, and to try to convert you to it.... now i come to your letter dated dec. nd, and must scold you for saying that my solution of the problem was "quite different _to_ all common ways of doing it": if _you_ think that's good english, well and good; but _i_ must beg to differ to you, and to hope you will _never_ write me a sentence similar from this again. however, "worse remains behind"; and if you deliberately intend in future, when writing to me about one of england's greatest poets, to call him "shelly," then all i can say is, that you and i will have to quarrel! be warned in time. c. l. dodgson. ch. ch., _jan_. , . my dear edith,--i am interested by what you say of miss--. you will know, without my saying it, that if she, or any other friend of yours with any troubles, were to like to write to me, i would _very_ gladly try to help: with all my ignorance and weakness, god has, i think, blessed my efforts in that way: but then his strength is made perfect in weakness.... ch. ch., _feb_. , . my dear edith,... i think i've already noticed, in a way, most of the rest of that letter--except what you say about learning more things "after we are dead." _i_ certainly like to think that may be so. but i have heard the other view strongly urged, a good deal based on "then shall we know even as we are known." but i can't believe that that means we shall have _all_ knowledge given us in a moment--nor can i fancy it would make me any happier: it is the _learning_ that is the chief joy, here, at any rate.... i find another remark anent "pupils"--a bold speculation that my , pupils may really "go on" in the future life, till they _have_ really outstripped euclid. and, please, what is _euclid_ to be doing all that time? ... one of the most dreadful things you have ever told me is your students' theory of going and speaking to any one they are interested in, without any introductions. this, joined with what you say of some of them being interested in "alice," suggests the horrid idea of their some day walking into this room and beginning a conversation. it is enough to make one shiver, even to think of it! never mind if people do say "good gracious!" when you help old women: it _is_ being, in some degree, both "good" _and_ "gracious," one may hope. so the remark wasn't so inappropriate. i fear i agree with your friend in not liking all sermons. some of them, one has to confess, are rubbish: but then i release my attention from the preacher, and go ahead in any line of thought he may have started: and his after-eloquence acts as a kind of accompaniment--like music while one is reading poetry, which often, to me, adds to the effect. c. l. dodgson. the "alice" operetta, which mr. dodgson had despaired of, was at last to become a reality. mr. savile clarke wrote on august th to ask his leave to dramatise the two books, and he gladly assented. he only made one condition, which was very characteristic of him, that there should be "no _suggestion_ even of coarseness in libretto or in stage business." the hint was hardly necessary, for mr. savile clarke was not the sort of man to spoil his work, or to allow others to spoil it, by vulgarity. several alterations were made in the books before they were suitable for a dramatic performance; mr. dodgson had to write a song for the ghosts of the oysters, which the walrus and the carpenter had devoured. he also completed "tis the voice of the lobster," so as to make it into a song. it ran as follows:-- tis the voice of the lobster; i heard him declare "you have baked me too brown: i must sugar my hair." as a duck with its eyelids, so he with his nose trims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes. when the sands are all dry, he is gay as a lark, and talks with the utmost contempt of the shark; but when the tide rises, and sharks are around, his words have a timid and tremulous sound. i passed by his garden, and marked, with one eye, how the owl and the panther were sharing a pie: the panther took pie-crust, and gravy, and meat, and the owl had the dish for his share of the treat. when the plate was divided, the owl, as a boon, was kindly permitted to pocket the spoon: but the panther obtained both the fork and the knife, so, when _he_ lost his temper, the owl lost its life. the play, for the first few weeks at least, was a great success. some notes in mr. dodgson's diary which relate to it, show how he appreciated mr. savile clarke's venture:-- _dec. th._--to london with m--, and took her to "alice in wonderland," mr. savile clarke's play at the prince of wales's theatre. the first act (wonderland) goes well, specially the mad tea party. mr. sydney harcourt is a capital hatter, and little dorothy d'alcourt (æt. / ) a delicious dormouse. phoebe carlo is a splendid alice. her song and dance with the cheshire cat (master c. adeson, who played the pirate king in "pirates of penzance") was a gem. as a whole the play seems a success. _feb_. , .--went to the "alice" play, where we sat next a chatty old gentleman, who told me that the author of "alice" had sent phoebe carlo a book, and that she had written to him to say that she would do her very best, and further, that he is "an oxford man"--all which i hope i received with a sufficient expression of pleased interest. shortly before the production of the play, a miss whitehead had drawn a very clever medley-picture, in which nearly all tenniel's wonderful creations--the dormouse, the white knight, the mad hatter, &c.--appeared. this design was most useful as a "poster" to advertise the play. after the london run was over, the company made a tour of the provinces, where it met with a fair amount of success. [illustration: medley of tenniel's illustrations in "alice." _from an etching by miss whitehead; used as a theatrical advertisement_.] at the end of , "alice's adventures underground," a facsimile of the original ms. book, afterwards developed into "alice's adventures in wonderland," with thirty-seven illustrations by the author, was published by macmillan & co. a postscript to the preface stated that any profits that might arise from the book would be given to children's hospitals and convalescent homes for sick children. shortly before the book came out, lewis carroll wrote to mrs. hargreaves, giving a description of the difficulties that he had encountered in producing it:-- christ church, oxford, _november_ , . my dear mrs. hargreaves,--many thanks for your permission to insert "hospitals" in the preface to your book. i have had almost as many adventures in getting that unfortunate facsimile finished, _above_ ground, as your namesake had _under_ it! first, the zincographer in london, recommended to me for photographing the book, page by page, and preparing the zinc-blocks, declined to undertake it unless i would entrust the book to _him_, which i entirely refused to do. i felt that it was only due to you, in return for your great kindness in lending so unique a book, to be scrupulous in not letting it be even _touched_ by the workmen's hands. in vain i offered to come and reside in london with the book, and to attend daily in the studio, to place it in position to be photographed, and turn over the pages as required. he said that could not be done because "other authors' works were being photographed there, which must on no account be seen by the public." i undertook not to look at _anything_ but my own book; but it was no use: we could not come to terms. then -- recommended me a certain mr. x--, an excellent photographer, but in so small a way of business that i should have to _prepay_ him, bit by bit, for the zinc-blocks: and _he_ was willing to come to oxford, and do it here. so it was all done in my studio, i remaining in waiting all the time, to turn over the pages. but i daresay i have told you so much of the story already. mr. x-- did a first-rate set of negatives, and took them away with him to get the zinc-blocks made. these he delivered pretty regularly at first, and there seemed to be every prospect of getting the book out by christmas, . on october , , i sent your book to mrs. liddell, who had told me your sisters were going to visit you and would take it with them. i trust it reached you safely? soon after this--i having prepaid for the whole of the zinc-blocks--the supply suddenly ceased, while twenty-two pages were still due, and mr. x-- disappeared! my belief is that he was in hiding from his creditors. we sought him in vain. so things went on for months. at one time i thought of employing a detective to find him, but was assured that "all detectives are scoundrels." the alternative seemed to be to ask you to lend the book again, and get the missing pages re-photographed. but i was most unwilling to rob you of it again, and also afraid of the risk of loss of the book, if sent by post--for even "registered post" does not seem _absolutely_ safe. in april he called at macmillan's and left _eight_ blocks, and again vanished into obscurity. this left us with fourteen pages (dotted up and down the book) still missing. i waited awhile longer, and then put the thing into the hands of a solicitor, who soon found the man, but could get nothing but promises from him. "you will never get the blocks," said the solicitor, "unless you frighten him by a summons before a magistrate." to this at last i unwillingly consented: the summons had to be taken out at--(that is where this aggravating man is living), and this entailed two journeys from eastbourne--one to get the summons (my _personal_ presence being necessary), and the other to attend in court with the solicitor on the day fixed for hearing the case. the defendant didn't appear; so the magistrate said he would take the case in his absence. then i had the new and exciting experience of being put into the witness-box, and sworn, and cross-examined by a rather savage magistrate's clerk, who seemed to think that, if he only bullied me enough, he would soon catch me out in a falsehood! i had to give the magistrate a little lecture on photo-zincography, and the poor man declared the case was so complicated he must adjourn it for another week. but this time, in order to secure the presence of our slippery defendant, he issued a warrant for his apprehension, and the constable had orders to take him into custody and lodge him in prison, the night before the day when the case was to come on. the news of _this_ effectually frightened him, and he delivered up the fourteen negatives (he hadn't done the blocks) before the fatal day arrived. i was rejoiced to get them, even though it entailed the paying a second time for getting the fourteen blocks done, and withdrew the action. the fourteen blocks were quickly done and put into the printer's hands; and all is going on smoothly at last: and i quite hope to have the book completed, and to be able to send you a very special copy (bound in white vellum, unless you would prefer some other style of binding) by the end of the month. believe me always, sincerely yours, c. l. dodgson. "the game of logic" was lewis carroll's next book; it appeared about the end of february, . as a method of teaching the first principles of logic to children it has proved most useful; the subject, usually considered very difficult to a beginner, is made extremely easy by simplification of method, and both interesting and amusing by the quaint syllogisms that the author devised, such as-- no bald person needs a hair-brush; no lizards have hair; therefore[ ] no lizard needs a hair brush. caterpillars are not eloquent; jones is eloquent; jones is not a caterpillar. meanwhile, with much interchange of correspondence between author and artist, the pictures for the new fairy tale, "sylvie and bruno," were being gradually evolved. each of them was subjected by lewis carroll to the most minute criticism--hyper-criticism, perhaps, occasionally. a few instances of the sort of criticisms he used to make upon mr. furniss's work may be interesting; i have extracted them from a letter dated september , . it will be seen that when he really admired a sketch he did not stint his praise:-- ( ) "sylvie helping beetle" [p. ]. a quite charming composition. ( ) "the doctor" and "eric." (mr. furniss's idea of their appearance). no! the doctor won't do _at all!_ he is a smug london man, a great "ladies' man," who would hardly talk anything but medical "shop." he is forty at least, and can have had no love-affair for the last fifteen years. i want him to be about twenty-five, powerful in frame, poetical in face: capable of intelligent interest in any subject, and of being a passionate lover. how would you draw king arthur when he first met guinevere? try _that_ type. eric's attitude is capital: but his face is a little too near to the ordinary "masher." please avoid _that_ inane creature; and please don't cut his hair short. that fashion will be "out" directly. ( ) "lady muriel" (head); ditto (full length); "earl." i don't like _either_ face of lady muriel. i don't think i could talk to her; and i'm quite sure i couldn't fall in love with her. her dress ("evening," of course) is very pretty, i think. i don't like the earl's face either. he is proud of his title, very formal, and one who would keep one "at arm's length" always. and he is too prodigiously tall. i want a gentle, genial old man; with whom one would feel at one's ease in a moment. ( ) "uggug becoming porcupine" ("sylvie and bruno, concluded," page ), is exactly my conception of it. i expect this will be one of the most effective pictures in the book. the faces of the people should express intense _terror_. ( ) "the professor" is altogether _delightful_. when you get the text, you will see that you have hit the very centre of the bull's-eye. [a sketch of "bruno"]. no, no! please don't give us the (to my mind) very ugly, quite modern costume, which shows with such cruel distinctness a podgy, pot-bellied (excuse the vulgarism) boy, who couldn't run a mile to save his life. i want bruno to be _strong_, but at the same time light and active--with the figure of one of the little acrobats one sees at the circus--not "master tommy," who habitually gorges himself with pudding. also that dress i dislike very much. please give him a short tunic, and _real_ knickerbockers--not the tight knee-breeches they are rapidly shrinking to. very truly yours, c. l. dodgson. by mr. furniss's kind permission i am enabled to give an example of the other side of the correspondence, one of his letters to mr. dodgson, all the more interesting for the charming little sketch which it contains. with respect to the spider, mr. dodgson had written: "some writer says that the full face of a spider, as seen under a magnifying-glass, is very striking." [illustration: _facsimile of a letter from h. furniss to lewis carroll, august , _.] [illustration: sylvie and bruno. _from a drawing by henry holiday_.] * * * * * chapter vii ( - ) a systematic life--"memoria technica"--mr. dodgson's shyness--"a lesson in latin"--the "wonderland" stamp-case--"wise words about letter-writing"--princess alice--"sylvie and bruno"--"the night cometh"--"the nursery 'alice'"--coventry patmore--telepathy--resignation of dr. liddell--a letter about logic. an old bachelor is generally very precise and exact in his habits. he has no one but himself to look after, nothing to distract his attention from his own affairs; and mr. dodgson was the most precise and exact of old bachelors. he made a précis of every letter he wrote or received from the st of january, , to the th of the same month, . these précis were all numbered and entered in reference-books, and by an ingenious system of cross-numbering he was able to trace a whole correspondence, which might extend through several volumes. the last number entered in his book is , . he had scores of green cardboard boxes, all neatly labelled, in which he kept his various papers. these boxes formed quite a feature of his study at oxford, a large number of them being arranged upon a revolving bookstand. the lists, of various sorts, which he kept were innumerable; one of them, that of unanswered correspondents, generally held seventy or eighty names at a time, exclusive of autograph-hunters, whom he did not answer on principle. he seemed to delight in being arithmetically accurate about every detail of life. he always rose at the same early hour, and, if he was in residence at christ church, attended college service. he spent the day according to a prescribed routine, which usually included a long walk into the country, very often alone, but sometimes with another don, or perhaps, if the walk was not to be as long as usual, with some little girl-friend at his side. when he had a companion with him, he would talk the whole time, telling delightful stories, or explaining some new logical problem; if he was alone, he used to think out his books, as probably many another author has done and will do, in the course of a lonely walk. the only irregularity noticeable in his mode of life was the hour of retiring, which varied from p.m. to four o'clock in the morning, according to the amount of work which he felt himself in the mood for. he had a wonderfully good memory, except for faces and dates. the former were always a stumbling-block to him, and people used to say (most unjustly) that he was intentionally short-sighted. one night he went up to london to dine with a friend, whom he had only recently met. the next morning a gentleman greeted him as he was walking. "i beg your pardon," said mr. dodgson, "but you have the advantage of me. i have no remembrance of having ever seen you before this moment." "that is very strange," the other replied, "for i was your host last night!" such little incidents as this happened more than once. to help himself to remember dates, he devised a system of mnemonics, which he circulated among his friends. as it has never been published, and as some of my readers may find it useful, i reproduce it here. my "memoria technica" is a modification of gray's; but, whereas he used both consonants and vowels to represent digits, and had to content himself with a syllable of gibberish to represent the date or whatever other number was required, i use only consonants, and fill in with vowels _ad libitum,_ and thus can always manage to make a real word of whatever has to be represented. the principles on which the necessary consonants have been chosen are as follows:-- . "b" and "c," the first two consonants in the alphabet. . "d" from "duo," "w" from "two." . "t" from "tres," the other may wait awhile. . "f" from "four," "q" from "quattuor." . "l" and "v," because "l" and "v" are the roman symbols for "fifty" and "five." . "s" and "x" from "six." . "p" and "m" from "septem." . "h" from "huit," and "k" from the greek "okto." . "n" from "nine"; and "g" because it is so like a " ." . "z" and "r" from "zero." there is now one consonant still waiting for its digit, viz., "j," and one digit waiting for its consonant, viz., " ," the conclusion is obvious. the result may be tabulated thus:-- | | | | | | | | | | | |b |d |t |f |l |s |p |h |n |z | |c |w |j |q |v |x |m |k |g |r | when a word has been found, whose last consonants represent the number required, the best plan is to put it as the last word of a rhymed couplet, so that, whatever other words in it are forgotten, the rhyme will secure the only really important word. now suppose you wish to remember the date of the discovery of america, which is ; the " " may be left out as obvious; all we need is " ." write it thus:-- f n d q g w and try to find a word that contains "f" or "q," "n" or "g," "d" or "w." a word soon suggests itself--"found." the poetic faculty must now be brought into play, and the following couplet will soon be evolved:-- "columbus sailed the world around, until america was f o u n d." if possible, invent the couplets for yourself; you will remember them better than any others. _june_, . the inventor found this "memoria technica" very useful in helping him to remember the dates of the different colleges. he often, of course, had to show his friends the sights of oxford, and the easy way in which, asked or unasked, he could embellish his descriptions with dates used to surprise those who did not know how the thing was done. the couplet for st. john's college ran as follows:-- "they must have a bevel to keep them so level." the allusion is to the beautiful lawns, for which st. john's is famous. in his power of remembering anecdotes, and bringing them out just at the right moment, mr. dodgson was unsurpassed. a guest brought into christ church common room was usually handed over to him to be amused. he was not a good man to tell a story to--he had always heard it before; but as a _raconteur_ i never met his equal. and the best of it was that his stories never grew--except in number. one would have expected that a mind so clear and logical and definite would have fought shy of the feminine intellect, which is generally supposed to be deficient in those qualities; and so it is somewhat surprising to find that by far the greater number of his friends were ladies. he was quite prepared to correct them, however, when they were guilty of what seemed to him unreasoning conduct, as is shown by the following extract from a letter of his to a young lady who had asked him to try and find a place for a governess, without giving the latter's address:-- some of my friends are business-men, and it is pleasant to see how methodical and careful they are in transacting any business-matter. if, for instance, one of them were to write to me, asking me to look out for a place for a french governess in whom he was interested, i should be sure to admire the care with which he would give me _her name in full_--(in extra-legible writing if it were an unusual name)--as well as her address. some of my friends are not men of business. so many such requests were addressed to him that at one time he had a circular letter printed, with a list of people requiring various appointments or assistants, which he sent round to his friends. in one respect lewis carroll resembled the stoic philosophers, for no outward circumstance could upset the tranquillity of his mind. he lived, in fact, the life which marcus aurelius commends so highly, the life of calm contentment, based on the assurance that so long as we are faithful to ourselves, no seeming evils can really harm us. but in him there was one exception to this rule. during an argument he was often excited. the war of words, the keen and subtle conflict between trained minds--in this his soul took delight, in this he sought and found the joy of battle and of victory. yet he would not allow his serenity to be ruffled by any foe whom he considered unworthy of his steel; he refused to argue with people whom he knew to be hopelessly illogical--definitely refused, though with such tact that no wound was given, even to the most sensitive. he was modest in the true sense of the term, neither overestimating nor underrating his own mental powers, and preferring to follow his own course without regarding outside criticism. "i never read anything about myself or my books," he writes in a letter to a friend; and the reason he used to give was that if the critics praised him he might become conceited, while, if they found fault, he would only feel hurt and angry. on october , , he wrote in his diary: "i see there is a leader in to-day's _standard_ on myself as a writer; but i do not mean to read it. it is not healthy reading, i think." he hated publicity, and tried to avoid it in every way. "do not tell any one, if you see me in the theatre," he wrote once to miss marion terry. on another occasion, when he was dining out at oxford, and some one, who did not know that it was a forbidden subject, turned the conversation on "alice in wonderland," he rose suddenly and fled from the house. i could multiply instances of this sort, but it would be unjust to his memory to insist upon the morbid way in which he regarded personal popularity. as compared with self-advertisement, it is certainly the lesser evil; but that it _is_ an evil, and a very painful one to its possessor, mr. dodgson fully saw. of course it had its humorous side, as, for instance, when he was brought into contact with lion-hunters, autograph-collectors, _et hoc genus omne_. he was very suspicious of unknown correspondents who addressed questions to him; in later years he either did not answer them at all, or used a typewriter. before he bought his typewriter, he would get some friend to write for him, and even to sign "lewis carroll" at the end of the letter. it used to give him great amusement to picture the astonishment of the recipients of these letters, if by any chance they ever came to compare his "autographs." on one occasion the secretary of a "young ladies' academy" in the united states asked him to present some of his works to the school library. the envelope was addressed to "lewis carroll, christ church," an incongruity which always annoyed him intensely. he replied to the secretary, "as mr. dodgson's books are all on mathematical subjects, he fears that they would not be very acceptable in a school library." some fourteen or fifteen years ago, the fourth-class of the girl's latin school at boston, u.s., started a magazine, and asked him if they might call it _the jabberwock._ he wrote in reply:-- mr. lewis carroll has much pleasure in giving to the editors of the proposed magazine permission to use the title they wish for. he finds that the anglo-saxon word "wocer" or "wocor" signifies "offspring" or "fruit." taking "jabber" in its ordinary acceptation of "excited and voluble discussion," this would give the meaning of "the result of much excited discussion." whether this phrase will have any application to the projected periodical, it will be for the future historian of american literature to determine. mr. carroll wishes all success to the forthcoming magazine. from that time forward he took a great interest in the magazine, and thought very well of it. it used, i believe, to be regularly supplied to him. only once did he express disapproval of anything it contained, and that was in , when he felt it necessary to administer a rebuke for what he thought to be an irreverent joke. the sequel is given in the following extract from _the jabberwock_ for june, :-- a friend worth having. _the jabberwock_ has many friends, and perhaps a few (very few, let us hope) enemies. but, of the former, the friend who has helped us most on the road to success is mr. lewis carroll, the author of "alice in wonderland," &c. our readers will remember his kind letter granting us permission to use the name "jabberwock," and also giving the meaning of that word. since then we have received another letter from him, in which he expresses both surprise and regret at an anecdote which we published in an early number of our little paper. we would assure mr. carroll, as well as our other friends, that we had no intention of making light of a serious matter, but merely quoted the anecdote to show what sort of a book washington's diary was. but now a third letter from our kind friend has come, enclosing, to our delight, a poem, "a lesson in latin," the pleasantest latin lesson we have had this year. the first two letters from mr. carroll were in a beautiful literary hand, whereas the third is written with a typewriter. it is to this fact that he refers in his letter, which is as follows:-- " , bedford street, covent garden, london, _may_ , . dear young friends,--after the black draught of serious remonstrance which i ventured to send to you the other day, surely a lump of sugar will not be unacceptable? the enclosed i wrote this afternoon on purpose for you. i hope you will grant it admission to the columns of _the jabberwock_, and not scorn it as a mere play upon words. this mode of writing, is, of course, an american invention. we never invent new machinery here; we do but use, to the best of our ability, the machines you send us. for the one i am now using, i beg you to accept my best thanks, and to believe me your sincere friend, lewis carroll." surely we can patiently swallow many black draughts, if we are to be rewarded with so sweet a lump of sugar! the enclosed poem, which has since been republished in "three sunsets," runs as follows: a lesson in latin. our latin books, in motley row, invite us to the task-- gay horace, stately cicero; yet there's one verb, when once we know, no higher skill we ask: this ranks all other lore above-- we've learned "amare" means "to love"! so hour by hour, from flower to flower, we sip the sweets of life: till ah! too soon the clouds arise, and knitted brows and angry eyes proclaim the dawn of strife. with half a smile and half a sigh, "amare! bitter one!" we cry. last night we owned, with looks forlorn, "too well the scholar knows there is no rose without a thorn "-- but peace is made! we sing, this morn, "no thorn without a rose!" our latin lesson is complete: we've learned that love is "bitter-sweet" lewis carroll. in october mr. dodgson invented a very ingenious little stamp-case, decorated with two "pictorial surprises," representing the "cheshire cat" vanishing till nothing but the grin was left, and the baby turning into a pig in "alice's" arms. the invention was entered at stationers' hall, and published by messrs. emberlin and son, of oxford. as an appropriate accompaniment, he wrote "eight or nine wise words on letter-writing," a little booklet which is still sold along with the case. the "wise words," as the following extracts show, have the true "carrollian" ring about them:-- some american writer has said "the snakes in this district may be divided into one species--the venomous." the same principle applies here. postage-stamp-cases may be divided into one species--the "wonderland." since i have possessed a "wonderland-stamp-case," life has been bright and peaceful, and i have used no other. i believe the queen's laundress uses no other. my fifth rule is, if your friend makes a severe remark, either leave it unnoticed or make your reply distinctly less severe: and, if he makes a friendly remark, tending towards "making up" the little difference that has arisen between you, let your reply be distinctly _more_ friendly. if, in picking a quarrel, each party declined to go more than _three-eighths_ of the way, and if, in making friends, each was ready to go _five-eighths_ of the way--why, there would be more reconciliations than quarrels! which is like the irishman's remonstrance to his gad-about daughter: "shure, you're _always_ goin' out! you go out _three_ times for wanst that you come in!" my sixth rule is, _don't try to have the last word!_ how many a controversy would be nipped in the bud, if each was anxious to let the _other_ have the last word! never mind how telling a rejoinder you leave unuttered: never mind your friend's supposing that you are silent from lack of anything to say: let the thing drop, as soon as it is possible without discourtesy: remember "speech is silvern, but silence is golden"! (n.b. if you are a gentleman, and your friend a lady, this rule is superfluous: _you won't get the last word!_) remember the old proverb, "cross-writing makes cross-reading." "the _old_ proverb?" you say inquiringly. "_how_ old?" well, not so _very_ ancient, i must confess. in fact, i invented it while writing this paragraph. still, you know, "old" is a _comparative_ term. i think you would be _quite_ justified in addressing a chicken, just out of the shell, as "old boy!" _when compared_ with another chicken that was only half-out! the pamphlet ends with an explanation of lewis carroll's method of using a correspondence-book, illustrated by a few imaginary pages from such a compilation, which are very humorous. [illustration: _facsimile of programme of "alice in wonderland_."] at the end of the year the "alice" operetta was again produced at the globe theatre, with miss isa bowman as the heroine. "isa makes a delightful alice," mr. dodgson writes, "and emsie [a younger sister] is wonderfully good as dormouse and as second ghost [of an oyster!], when she sings a verse, and dances the sailor's hornpipe." [illustration: "the mad tea-party." _from a photograph by elliott & fry_.] the first of an incomplete series, "curiosa mathematica," was published for mr. dodgson by messrs. macmillan during the year. it was entitled "a new theory of parallels," and any one taking it up for the first time might be tempted to ask, is the author serious, or is he simply giving us some _jeu d'esprit?_ a closer inspection, however, soon settles the question, and the reader, if mathematics be his hobby, is carried irresistibly along till he reaches the last page. the object which mr. dodgson set himself to accomplish was to prove euclid i. without assuming the celebrated th axiom, a feat which calls up visions of the "circle-squarers." the work is divided into two parts: book i. contains certain propositions which require no disputable axiom for their proof, and when once the few definitions of "amount," &c., have become familiar it is easy reading. in book ii. the author introduces a new axiom, or rather "quasi-axiom"--for it's _self-evident_ character is open to dispute. this axiom is as follows:-- in any circle the inscribed equilateral tetragon (hexagon in editions st and nd) is greater than any one of the segments which lie outside it. assuming the truth of this axiom, mr. dodgson proves a series of propositions, which lead up to and enable him to accomplish the feat referred to above. at the end of book ii. he places a proof (so far as finite magnitudes are concerned) of euclid's axiom, preceded by and dependent on the axiom that "if two homogeneous magnitudes be both of them finite, the lesser may be so multiplied by a finite number as to exceed the greater." this axiom, he says, he believes to be assumed by every writer who has attempted to prove euclid's th axiom. the proof itself is borrowed, with slight alterations, from cuthbertson's "euclidean geometry." in appendix i. there is an alternative axiom which may be substituted for that which introduces book ii., and which will probably commend itself to many minds as being more truly axiomatic. to substitute this, however, involves some additions and alterations, which the author appends. appendix ii. is headed by the somewhat startling question, "is euclid's axiom true?" and though true for finite magnitudes--the sense in which, no doubt, euclid meant it to be taken--it is shown to be not universally true. in appendix iii. he propounds the question, "how should parallels be defined?" appendix iv., which deals with the theory of parallels as it stands to-day, concludes with the following words:-- i am inclined to believe that if ever euclid i. is proved without a new axiom, it will be by some new and ampler definition of the _right line_--some definition which shall connote that mysterious property, which it must somehow possess, which causes euclid i. to be true. try _that_ track, my gentle reader! it is not much trodden as yet. and may success attend your search! in the introduction, which, as is frequently the case, ought to be read _last_ in order to be appreciated properly, he relates his experiences with two of those "misguided visionaries," the circle-squarers. one of them had selected . as the value for "_pi_," and the other proved, to his own satisfaction at least, that it is correctly represented by ! the rev. watson hagger, to whose kindness, as i have already stated in my preface, my readers are indebted for the several accounts of mr. dodgson's books on mathematics which appear in this memoir, had a similar experience with one of these "cranks." this circle-squarer selected . as the value for "_pi_," and mr. hagger, who was fired with mr. dodgson's ambition to convince his correspondent of his error, failed as signally as mr. dodgson did. the following letter is interesting as showing that, strict conservative though he was, he was not in religious matters narrow-minded; he held his own opinions strongly, but he would never condemn those of other people. he saw "good in everything," and there was but little exaggeration, be it said in all reverence, in the phrase which an old friend of his used in speaking of him to me: "mr. dodgson was as broad--as broad as _christ_." christ church, oxford, _may_ , . dear miss manners,--i hope to have a new book out very soon, and had entered your name on the list of friends to whom copies are to go; but, on second thoughts, perhaps you might prefer that i should send it to your little sister (?) (niece) rachel, whom you mentioned in one of your letters. it is to be called "the nursery alice," and is meant for very young children, consisting of coloured enlargements of twenty of the pictures in "alice," with explanations such as one would give in showing them to a little child. i was much interested by your letter, telling me you belong to the society of friends. please do not think of _me_ as one to whom a "difference of creed" is a bar to friendship. my sense of brother- and sisterhood is at least broad enough to include _christians_ of all denominations; in fact, i have one valued friend (a lady who seems to live to do good kind things) who is a unitarian. shall i put "rachel manners" in the book? believe me, very sincerely yours, c. l. dodgson. from june th to june th he stayed at hatfield. once at luncheon [he writes] i had the duchess (of albany) as neighbour and once at breakfast, and had several other chats with her, and found her very pleasant indeed. princess alice is a sweet little girl. her little brother (the duke of albany) was entirely fascinating, a perfect little prince, and the picture of good-humour. on sunday afternoon i had a pleasant half-hour with the children [princess alice, the duke of albany, honorable mabel palmer, lady victoria manners, and lord haddon], telling them "bruno's picnic" and folding a fishing-boat for them. i got the duchess's leave to send the little alice a copy of the "nursery alice," and mean to send it with "alice underground" for herself. towards the end of the year lewis carroll had tremendously hard work, completing "sylvie and bruno." for several days on end he worked from breakfast until nearly ten in the evening without a rest. at last it was off his hands, and for a month or so he was (comparatively) an idle man. some notes from his diary, written during this period, follow:-- _nov. th._--met, for first time, an actual believer in the "craze" that buying and selling are wrong (!) (he is rather 'out of his mind'). the most curious thing was his declaration that he himself _lives_ on that theory, and never buys anything, and has no money! i thought of railway travelling, and ventured to ask how he got from london to oxford? "on a bicycle!" and how he got the bicycle? "it was given him!" so i was floored, and there was no time to think of any other instances. the whole thing was so new to me that, when he declared it to be _un-christian_, i quite forgot the text, "he that hath no sword, let him sell his garment, and buy one." _dec. th._--went over to birmingham to see a performance of "alice" (mrs. freiligrath kroeker's version) at the high school. i rashly offered to tell "bruno's picnic" afterwards to the little children, thinking i should have an audience of or , mostly children, instead of which i had to tell it from the stage to an audience of about , mostly older girls and grown-up people! however, i got some of the children to come on the stage with me, and the little alice (muriel howard-smith, æt. ) stood by me, which made it less awful. the evening began with some of "julius caesar" in german. this and "alice" were really capitally acted, the white queen being quite the best i have seen (miss b. lloyd owen). i was introduced to alice and a few more, and was quite sorry to hear afterwards that the other performers wanted to shake hands. the publication of "sylvie and bruno" marks an epoch in its author's life, for it was the publication of all the ideals and sentiments which he held most dear. it was a book with a definite purpose; it would be more true to say with several definite purposes. for this very reason it is not an artistic triumph as the two "alice" books undoubtedly are; it is on a lower literary level, there is no unity in the story. but from a higher standpoint, that of the christian and the philanthropist, the book is the best thing he ever wrote. it is a noble effort to uphold the right, or what he thought to be the right, without fear of contempt or unpopularity. the influence which his earlier books had given him he was determined to use in asserting neglected truths. [illustration: the late duke of albany. _from a photograph by lewis carroll._] of course the story has other features, delightful nonsense not surpassed by anything in "wonderland," childish prattle with all the charm of reality about it, and pictures which may fairly be said to rival those of sir john tenniel. had these been all, the book would have been a great success. as things are, there are probably hundreds of readers who have been scared by the religious arguments and political discussions which make up a large part of it, and who have never discovered that sylvie is just as entrancing a personage as alice when you get to know her. perhaps the sentiment of the following poem, sent to lewis carroll by an anonymous correspondent, may also explain why some of "alice's" lovers have given "sylvie" a less warm welcome:-- to sylvie. ah! sylvie, winsome, wise and good! fain would i love thee as i should. but, to tell the truth, my dear,-- and sylvie loves the truth to hear,-- though fair and pure and sweet thou art, thine elder sister has my heart! i gave it her long, long ago to have and hold; and well i know, brave lady sylvie, thou wouldst scorn to accept a heart foresworn. lovers thou wilt have enow under many a greening bough-- lovers yet unborn galore, like alice all the wide world o'er; but, darling, i am now too old to change. and though i still shall hold thee, and that puckling sprite, thy brother, dear, i cannot _love_ another: in this heart of mine i own _she_ must ever reign alone! _march_, . n.p. i do not know n.p.'s name and address, or i should have asked leave before giving publicity to the above verses. if these words meet his eye, i hope he will accept my most humble apologies for the liberty i have taken. at the beginning of a baptist minister, preaching on the text, "no man liveth to himself," made use of "sylvie and bruno" to enforce his argument. after saying that he had been reading that book, he proceeded as follows: a child was asked to define charity. he said it was "givin' away what yer didn't want yerself." this was some people's idea of self-sacrifice; but it was not christ's. then as to serving others in view of reward: mr. lewis carroll put this view of the subject very forcibly in his "sylvie and bruno"--an excellent book for youth; indeed, for men and women too. he first criticised archdeacon paley's definition of virtue (which was said to be "the doing good to mankind, in obedience to the will of god, and for the sake of everlasting happiness,") and then turned to such hymns as the following:-- whatever, lord, we lend to thee, _repaid a thousandfold shall be_, then gladly will we give to thee, giver of all! mr. carroll's comment was brief and to the point. he said: "talk of original _sin_! can you have a stronger proof of the original goodness there must be in this nation than the fact that religion has been preached to us, as a commercial speculation, for a century, and that we still believe in a god?" ["sylvie and bruno," part i., pp. , .] of course it was quite true, as mr. carroll pointed out, that our good deeds would be rewarded; but we ought to do them because they were _good_, and not because the reward was great. in the preface to "sylvie and bruno," lewis carroll alluded to certain editions of shakespeare which seemed to him unsuitable for children; it never seemed to strike him that his words might be read by children, and that thus his object very probably would be defeated, until this fact was pointed out to him in a letter from an unknown correspondent, mr. j.c. cropper, of hampstead. mr. dodgson replied as follows:-- dear sir,--accept my best thanks for your thoughtful and valuable suggestion about the preface to "sylvie and bruno." the danger you point out had not occurred to me (i suppose i had not thought of _children_ reading the preface): but it is a very real one, and i am very glad to have had my attention called to it. believe me, truly yours, lewis carroll. mathematical controversy carried on by correspondence was a favourite recreation of mr. dodgson's, and on february , , he wrote:-- i've just concluded a correspondence with a cambridge man, who is writing a geometry on the "direction" theory (wilson's plan), and thinks he has avoided wilson's (what _i_ think) fallacies. he _hasn't_, but i can't convince him! my view of life is, that it's next to impossible to convince _anybody_ of _anything_. the following letter is very characteristic. "whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with all thy might," was mr. dodgson's rule of life, and, as the end drew near, he only worked the harder:-- christ church, oxford, _april_ , . my dear atkinson,--many and sincere thanks for your most hospitable invitation, and for the very interesting photo of the family group. the former i fear i must ask you to let me defer _sine die_, and regard it as a pleasant dream, not _quite_ hopeless of being some day realised. i keep a list of such pleasant possibilities, and yours is now one of ten similar kind offers of hospitality. but as life shortens in, and the evening shadows loom in sight, one gets to _grudge any_ time given to mere pleasure, which might entail the leaving work half finished that one is longing to do before the end comes. there are several books i _greatly_ desire to get finished for children. i am glad to find my working powers are as good as they ever were. even with the mathematical book (a third edition) which i am now getting through the press, i think nothing of working six hours at a stretch. there is one text that often occurs to me, "the night cometh, when no man can work." kindest regards to mrs. atkinson, and love to gertrude. always sincerely yours, c. l. dodgson. for the benefit of children aged "from nought to five," as he himself phrased it, lewis carroll prepared a nursery edition of "alice." he shortened the text considerably, and altered it so much that only the plot of the story remained unchanged. it was illustrated by the old pictures, coloured by tenniel, and the cover was adorned by a picture designed by miss e. gertrude thomson. as usual, the dedication takes the form of an anagram, the solution of which is the name of one of his later child-friends. "_the nursery 'alice,_'" was published by macmillan and co., in march, . on august th the following letter on the "eight hours movement" appeared in _the standard:_-- sir,--supposing it were the custom, in a certain town, to sell eggs in paper bags at so much per bag, and that a fierce dispute had arisen between the egg vendors and the public as to how many eggs each bag should be understood to contain, the vendors wishing to be allowed to make up smaller bags; and supposing the public were to say, "in future we will pay you so much per egg, and you can make up bags as you please," would any ground remain for further dispute? supposing that employers of labour, when threatened with a "strike" in case they should decline to reduce the number of hours in a working day, were to reply, "in future we will pay you so much per hour, and you can make up days as you please," it does appear to me--being, as i confess, an ignorant outsider--that the dispute would die out for want of a _raison d'être_, and that these disastrous strikes, inflicting such heavy loss on employers and employed alike, would become things of the past. i am, sir, your obedient servant, lewis carroll. the remainder of the year was uneventful; a few notes from his diary must represent it here:-- _oct. th._--called on mr. coventry patmore (at hastings), and was very kindly received by him, and stayed for afternoon tea and dinner. he showed me some interesting pictures, including a charming little drawing, by holman hunt, of one of his daughters when three years old. he gave me an interesting account of his going, by tennyson's request, to his lodging to look for the ms. of "in memoriam," which he had left behind, and only finding it by insisting on going upstairs, in spite of the landlady's opposition, to search for it. also he told me the story (i think i have heard it before) of what wordsworth told his friends as the "one joke" of his life, in answer to a passing carter who asked if he had seen his wife. "my good friend, i didn't even know you had a wife!" he seems a very hale and vigorous old man for nearly seventy, which i think he gave as his age in writing to me. _oct. st._--this morning, thinking over the problem of finding two squares whose sum is a square, i chanced on a theorem (which seems _true_, though i cannot prove it), that if x² + y² be even, its half is the sum of two squares. a kindred theorem, that (x² + y²) is always the sum of two squares, also seems true and unprovable. _nov. th.--_i have now proved the above two theorems. another pretty deduction from the theory of square numbers is, that any number whose square is the sum of two squares, is itself the sum of two squares. i have already mentioned mr. dodgson's habit of thinking out problems at night. often new ideas would occur to him during hours of sleeplessness, and he had long wanted to hear of or invent some easy method of taking notes in the dark. at first he tried writing within oblongs cut out of cardboard, but the result was apt to be illegible. in he conceived the device of having a series of squares cut out in card, and inventing an alphabet, of which each letter was made of lines, which could be written along the edges of the squares, and dots, which could be marked at the corners. the thing worked well, and he named it the "typhlograph," but, at the suggestion of one of his brother-students, this was subsequently changed into "nyctograph." he spent the long vacation at eastbourne, attending service every sunday at christ church, according to his usual rule. _sept._ , .--at the evening service at christ church a curious thing happened, suggestive of telepathy. before giving out the second hymn the curate read out some notices. meanwhile i took my hymn-book, and said to myself (i have no idea _why_), "it will be hymn ," and i turned to it. it was not one i recognised as having ever heard; and, on looking at it, i said, "it is very prosaic; it is a very unlikely one"--and it was really startling, the next minute, to hear the curate announce "hymn ." in october it became generally known that dean liddell was going to resign at christmas. this was a great blow to mr. dodgson, but little mitigated by the fact that the very man whom he himself would have chosen, dr. paget, was appointed to fill the vacant place. the old dean was very popular in college; even the undergraduates, with whom he was seldom brought into contact, felt the magic of his commanding personality and the charm of his gracious, old-world manner. he was a man whom, once seen, it was almost impossible to forget. [illustration: the dean of christ church. _from a photograph by hill & saunders._] shortly before the resignation of dr. liddell, the duchess of albany spent a few days at the deanery. mr. dodgson was asked to meet her royal highness at luncheon, but was unable to go. princess alice and the little duke of albany, however, paid him a visit, and were initiated in the art of making paper pistols. he promised to send the princess a copy of a book called "the fairies," and the children, having spent a happy half-hour in his rooms, returned to the deanery. this was one of the days which he "marked with a white stone." he sent a copy of "the nursery 'alice'" to the little princess alice, and received a note of thanks from her, and also a letter from her mother, in which she said that the book had taught the princess to like reading, and to do it out of lesson-time. to the duke he gave a copy of a book entitled "the merry elves." in his little note of thanks for this gift, the boy said, "alice and i want you to love us both." mr. dodgson sent princess alice a puzzle, promising that if she found it out, he would give her a "golden chair from wonderland." at the close of the year he wrote me a long letter, which i think worthy of reproducing here, for he spent a long time over it, and it contains excellent examples of his clear way of putting things. _to s.d. collingwood._ ch. ch., oxford, _dec_. , . my dear stuart,--(rather a large note-sheet, isn't it? but they do differ in size, you know.) i fancy this book of science (which i have had a good while, without making any use of it), may prove of some use to you, with your boys. [i was a schoolmaster at that time.] also this cycling-book (or whatever it is to be called) may be useful in putting down engagements, &c., besides telling you a lot about cycles. there was no use in sending it to _me; my _cycling days are over. you ask me if your last piece of "meritt" printing is dark enough. i think not. i should say the rollers want fresh inking. as to the _matter_ of your specimen--[it was a poor little essay on killing animals for the purpose of scientific recreations, _e.g._, collecting butterflies]--i think you _cannot_ spend your time better than in trying to set down clearly, in that essay-form, your ideas on any subject that chances to interest you; and _specially_ any theological subject that strikes you in the course of your reading for holy orders. it will be most _excellent_ practice for you, against the time when you try to compose sermons, to try thus to realise exactly what it is you mean, and to express it clearly, and (a much harder matter) to get into proper shape the _reasons_ of your opinions, and to see whether they do, or do not, tend to prove the conclusions you come to. you have never studied technical logic, at all, i fancy. [i _had_, but i freely admit that the essay in question proved that i had not then learnt to apply my principles to practice.] it would have been a great help: but still it is not indispensable: after all, it is only the putting into rules of the way in which _every_ mind proceeds, when it draws valid conclusions; and, by practice in careful thinking, you may get to know "fallacies" when you meet with them, without knowing the formal _rules_. at present, when you try to give _reasons_, you are in considerable danger of propounding fallacies. instances occur in this little essay of yours; and i hope it won't offend your _amour propre_ very much, if an old uncle, who has studied logic for forty years, makes a few remarks on it. i am not going to enter _at all_ on the subject-matter itself, or to say whether i agree, or not, with your _conclusions_: but merely to examine, from a logic-lecturer's point of view, your _premisses_ as relating to them. ( ) "as the lower animals do not appear to have personality or individual existence, i cannot see that any particular one's life can be very important," &c. the word "personality" is very vague: i don't know what you mean by it. if you were to ask yourself, "what test should i use in distinguishing what _has_, from what has _not_, personality?" you might perhaps be able to express your meaning more clearly. the phrase "individual existence" is clear enough, and is in direct logical contradiction to the phrase "particular one." to say, of anything, that it has _not_ "individual existence," and yet that it _is_ a "particular one," involves the logical fallacy called a "contradiction in terms." ( ) "in both cases" (animal and plant) "death is only the conversion of matter from one form to another." the word "form" is very vague--i fancy you use it in a sort of _chemical_ sense (like saying "sugar is starch in another form," where the change in nature is generally believed to be a rearrangement of the very same atoms). if you mean to assert that the difference between a live animal and a dead animal, _i.e.,_ between animate and sensitive matter, and the same matter when it becomes inanimate and insensitive, is a mere rearrangement of the same atoms, your premiss is intelligible. (it is a bolder one than any biologists have yet advanced. the most sceptical of them admits, i believe, that "vitality" is a thing _per se. _however, that is beside my present scope.) but this premiss is advanced to prove that it is of no "consequence" to kill an animal. but, granting that the conversion of sensitive into insensitive matter (and of course _vice versa_) is a mere change of "form," and _therefore_ of no "consequence"; granting this, we cannot escape the including under this rule all similar cases. if the _power_ of feeling pain, and the _absence_ of that power, are only a difference of "form," the conclusion is inevitable that the _feeling_ pain, and the _not_ feeling it, are _also_ only a difference in form, _i.e.,_ to convert matter, which is _not_ feeling pain, into matter _feeling_ pain, is only to change its "form," and, if the process of "changing form" is of no "consequence" in the case of sensitive and insensitive matter, we must admit that it is _also_ of no "consequence" in the case of pain-feeling and _not_ pain-feeling matter. this conclusion, i imagine, you neither intended nor foresaw. the premiss, which you use, involves the fallacy called "proving too much." the best advice that could be given to you, when you begin to compose sermons, would be what an old friend once gave to a young man who was going out to be an indian judge (in india, it seems, the judge decides things, without a jury, like our county court judges). "give _your decisions_ boldly and clearly; they will probably be _right_. but do _not_ give your _reasons: they_ will probably be _wrong"_ if your lot in life is to be in a _country_ parish, it will perhaps not matter _much_ whether the reasons given in your sermons do or do not prove your conclusions. but even there you _might_ meet, and in a town congregation you would be _sure_ to meet, clever sceptics, who know well how to argue, who will detect your fallacies and point them out to those who are _not_ yet troubled with doubts, and thus undermine _all_ their confidence in your teaching. at eastbourne, last summer, i heard a preacher advance the astounding argument, "we believe that the bible is true, because our holy mother, the church, tells us it is." i pity that unfortunate clergyman if ever he is bold enough to enter any young men's debating club where there is some clear-headed sceptic who has heard, or heard of, that sermon. i can fancy how the young man would rub his hands, in delight, and would say to himself, "just see me get him into a corner, and convict him of arguing in a circle!" the bad logic that occurs in many and many a well-meant sermon, is a real danger to modern christianity. when detected, it may seriously injure many believers, and fill them with miserable doubts. so my advice to you, as a young theological student, is "sift your reasons _well_, and, before you offer them to others, make sure that they prove your conclusions." i hope you won't give this letter of mine (which it has cost me some time and thought to write) just a single reading and then burn it; but that you will lay it aside. perhaps, even years hence, it may be of some use to you to read it again. believe me always your affectionate uncle, c. l. dodgson. * * * * * chapter viii ( - ) mr. dodgson resigns the curatorship--bazaars--he lectures to children--a mechanical "humpty dumpty"--a logical controversy--albert chevalier--"sylvie and bruno concluded"--"pillow problems"--mr. dodgson's generosity--college services--religious difficulties--a village sermon--plans for the future--reverence--"symbolic logic." at christ church, as at other colleges, the common room is an important feature. open from eight in the morning until ten at night, it takes the place of a club, where the "dons" may see the newspapers, talk, write letters, or enjoy a cup of tea. after dinner, members of high table, with their guests if any are present, usually adjourn to the common room for wine and dessert, while there is a smoking-room hard by for those who do not despise the harmless but unnecessary weed, and below are cellars, with a goodly store of choice old wines. the curator's duties were therefore sufficiently onerous. they were doubly so in mr. dodgson's case, for his love of minute accuracy greatly increased the amount of work he had to do. it was his office to select and purchase wines, to keep accounts, to adjust selling price to cost price, to see that the two common room servants performed their duties, and generally to look after the comfort and convenience of the members. "having heard," he wrote near the end of the year , "that strong was willing to be elected (as curator), and common room willing to elect him, i most gladly resigned. the sense of relief at being free from the burdensome office, which has cost me a large amount of time and trouble, is very delightful. i was made curator, december , , so that i have held the office more than nine years." the literary results of his curatorship were three very interesting little pamphlets, "twelve months in a curatorship, by one who has tried it"; "three years in a curatorship, by one whom it has tried"; and "curiosissima curatoria, by 'rude donatus,'" all printed for private circulation, and couched in the same serio-comic vein. as a logician he naturally liked to see his thoughts in print, for, just as the mathematical mind craves for a black-board and a piece of chalk, so the logical mind must have its paper and printing-press wherewith to set forth its deductions effectively. a few extracts must suffice to show the style of these pamphlets, and the opportunity offered for the display of humour. in the arrangement of the prices at which wines were to be sold to members of common room, he found a fine scope for the exercise of his mathematical talents and his sense of proportion. in one of the pamphlets he takes old port and chablis as illustrations. the original cost of each is about s. a bottle; but the present value of the old port is about s. a bottle. let us suppose, then, that we have to sell to common room one bottle of old port and three of chablis, the original cost of the whole being s., and the present value s. these are our data. we have now two questions to answer. first, what sum shall we ask for the whole? secondly, how shall we apportion that sum between the two kinds of wine? the sum to be asked for the whole he decides, following precedent, is to be the present market-value of the wine; as to the second question, he goes on to say-- we have, as so often happens in the lives of distinguished premiers, three courses before us: ( ) to charge the _present_ value for each kind of wine; ( ) to put on a certain percentage to the _original_ value of each kind; ( ) to make a compromise between these two courses. course seems to me perfectly reasonable; but a very plausible objection has been made to it--that it puts a prohibitory price on the valuable wines, and that they would remain unconsumed. this would not, however, involve any loss to our finances; we could obviously realise the enhanced values of the old wines by selling them to outsiders, if the members of common room would not buy them. but i do not advocate this course. course would lead to charging s. a bottle for port and chablis alike. the port-drinker would be "in clover," while the chablis-drinker would probably begin getting his wine direct from the merchant instead of from the common room cellar, which would be a _reductio ad absurdum_ of the tariff. yet i have heard this course advocated, repeatedly, as an abstract principle. "you ought to consider the _original_ value only," i have been told. "you ought to regard the port-drinker as a private individual, who has laid the wine in for himself, and who ought to have all the advantages of its enhanced value. you cannot fairly ask him for more than what you need to refill the bins with port, _plus_ the percentage thereon needed to meet the contingent expenses." i have listened to such arguments, but have never been convinced that the course is just. it seems to me that the s. additional value which the bottle of port has acquired, is the property of _common room_, and that common room has the power to give it to whom it chooses; and it does not seem to me fair to give it all to the port-drinker. what merit is there in preferring port to chablis, that could justify our selling the port-drinker his wine at less than half what he would have to give outside, and charging the chablis-drinker five-thirds of what he would have to give outside? at all events, i, as a port-drinker, do not wish to absorb the whole advantage, and would gladly share it with the chablis-drinker. the course i recommend is course , which is a compromise between and , its essential principle being to sell the new wines _above_ their value, in order to be able to sell the old _below_ their value. and it is clearly desirable, as far as possible, to make the reductions _where they will be felt,_ and the additions _where they will not be felt._ moreover it seems to me that reduction is most felt where it _goes down to the next round sum,_ and an addition in the reverse case, _i.e.,_ when it _starts from a round sum._ thus, if we were to take d. off a s. d. wine, and add it to a s. d.--thus selling them at s. d. and s. d. the reduction would be welcomed, and the addition unnoticed; and the change would be a popular one. the next extract shows with what light-hearted frivolity he could approach this tremendous subject of wine:-- the consumption of madeira (b) has been during the past year, zero. after careful calculation i estimate that, if this rate of consumption be steadily maintained, our present stock will last us an infinite number of years. and although there may be something monotonous and dreary in the prospect of such vast cycles spent in drinking second-class madeira, we may yet cheer ourselves with the thought of how economically it can be done. to assist the curator in the discharge of his duties, there was a wine committee, and for its guidance a series of rules was drawn up. the first runs as follows: "there shall be a wine committee, consisting of five persons, including the curator, whose duty it shall be to assist the curator in the management of the cellar." "hence," wrote mr. dodgson, "logically it is the bounden duty of the curator 'to assist himself.' i decline to say whether this clause has ever brightened existence for me--or whether, in the shades of evening, i may ever have been observed leaving the common room cellars with a small but suspicious-looking bundle, and murmuring, 'assist thyself, assist thyself!'" every christmas at christ church the children of the college servants have a party in the hall. this year he was asked to entertain them, and gladly consented to do so. he hired a magic lantern and a large number of slides, and with their help told the children the three following stories: ( ) "the epiphany"; ( ) "the children lost in the bush"; ( ) "bruno's picnic." i have already referred to the services held in christ church for the college servants, at which mr. dodgson used frequently to preach. the way in which he regarded this work is very characteristic of the man. "once more," he writes, "i have to thank my heavenly father for the great blessing and privilege of being allowed to speak for him! may he bless my words to help some soul on its heavenward way." after one of these addresses he received a note from a member of the congregation, thanking him for what he had said. "it is very sweet," he said, "to get such words now and then; but there is danger in them if more such come, i must beg for silence." during the year mr. dodgson wrote the following letter to the rev. c.a. goodhart, rector of lambourne, essex:-- dear sir,--your kind, sympathising and most encouraging letter about "sylvie and bruno" has deserved a better treatment from me than to have been thus kept waiting more than two years for an answer. but life is short; and one has many other things to do; and i have been for years almost hopelessly in arrears in correspondence. i keep a register, so that letters which i intend to answer do somehow come to the front at last. in "sylvie and bruno" i took courage to introduce what i had entirely avoided in the two "alice" books--some reference to subjects which are, after all, the _only_ subjects of real interest in life, subjects which are so intimately bound up with every topic of human interest that it needs more effort to avoid them than to touch on them; and i felt that such a book was more suitable to a clerical writer than one of mere fun. i hope i have not offended many (evidently i have not offended _you_) by putting scenes of mere fun, and talk about god, into the same book. only one of all my correspondents ever guessed there was more to come of the book. she was a child, personally unknown to me, who wrote to "lewis carroll" a sweet letter about the book, in which she said, "i'm so glad it hasn't got a regular wind-up, as it shows there is more to come!" there is indeed "more to come." when i came to piece together the mass of accumulated material i found it was quite _double_ what could be put into one volume. so i divided it in the middle; and i hope to bring out "sylvie and bruno concluded" next christmas--if, that is, my heavenly master gives me the time and the strength for the task; but i am nearly , and have no right to count on years to come. in signing my real name, let me beg you not to let the information go further--i have an _intense_ dislike to personal publicity; and, the more people there are who know nothing of "lewis carroll" save his books, the happier i am. believe me, sincerely yours, charles l. dodgson. i have made no attempt to chronicle all the games and puzzles which lewis carroll invented. a list of such as have been published will be found in the bibliographical chapter. he intended to bring out a book of "original games and puzzles," with illustrations by miss e. gertrude thomson. the ms. was, i believe, almost complete before his death, and one, at least, of the pictures had been drawn. on june th he wrote in his diary, "invented what i think is a new kind of riddle. a russian had three sons. the first, named rab, became a lawyer; the second, ymra, became a soldier; the third became a sailor. what was his name?" the following letter written to a child-friend, miss e. drury, illustrates lewis carroll's hatred of bazaars:-- ch. ch., oxford, _nov_. , . my dear emmie,--i object to _all_ bazaars on the general principle that they are very undesirable schools for young ladies, in which they learn to be "too fast" and forward, and are more exposed to undesirable acquaintances than in ordinary society. and i have, besides that, special objections to bazaars connected with charitable or religious purposes. it seems to me that they desecrate the religious object by their undesirable features, and that they take the reality out of all charity by getting people to think that they are doing a good action, when their true motive is amusement for themselves. ruskin has put all this far better than i can possibly do, and, if i can find the passage, and find the time to copy it, i will send it you. but _time_ is a very scarce luxury for me! always yours affectionately, c.l. dodgson. in his later years he used often to give lectures on various subjects to children. he gave a series on "logic" at the oxford girls' high school, but he sometimes went further afield, as in the following instance:-- went, as arranged with miss a. ottley, to the high school at worcester, on a visit. at half-past three i had an audience of about a hundred little girls, aged, i should think, from about six to fourteen. i showed them two arithmetic puzzles on the black-board, and told them "bruno's picnic." at half-past seven i addressed some serious words to a second audience of about a hundred elder girls, probably from fifteen to twenty--an experience of the deepest interest to me. the illustration on the next page will be best explained by the following letter which i have received from mr. walter lindsay, of philadelphia, u.s.:-- phila., _september_ , . dear sir,--i shall be very glad to furnish what information i can with respect to the "mechanical humpty dumpty" which i constructed a few years ago, but i must begin by acknowledging that, in one sense at least, i did not "invent" the figure. the idea was first put into my head by an article in the _cosmopolitan_, somewhere about , i suppose, describing a similar contrivance. as a devoted admirer of the "alice" books, i determined to build a humpty dumpty of my own; but i left the model set by the author of the article mentioned, and constructed the figure on entirely different lines. in the first place, the figure as described in the magazine had very few movements, and not very satisfactory ones at that; and in the second place, no attempt whatever was made to reproduce, even in a general way, the well-known appearance of tenniel's drawing. humpty, when completed, was about two feet and a half high. his face, of course, was white; the lower half of the egg was dressed in brilliant blue. his stockings were grey, and the famous cravat orange, with a zigzag pattern in blue. i am sorry to say that the photograph hardly does him justice; but he had travelled to so many different places during his career, that he began to be decidedly out of shape before he sat for his portrait. [illustration: the mechanical "humpty dumpty." _from a photograph._] when humpty was about to perform, a short "talk" was usually given before the curtain rose, explaining the way in which the sheep put the egg on the shelf at the back of the little shop, and how alice went groping along to it. and then, just as the explanation had reached the opening of the chapter on humpty dumpty, the curtain rose, and humpty was discovered, sitting on the wall, and gazing into vacancy. as soon as the audience had had time to recover, alice entered, and the conversation was carried on just as it is in the book. humpty dumpty gesticulated with his arms, rolled his eyes, raised his eyebrows, frowned, turned up his nose in scorn at alice's ignorance, and smiled from ear to ear when he shook hands with her. besides this, his mouth kept time with his words all through the dialogue, which added very greatly to his life-like appearance. the effect of his huge face, as it changed from one expression to another, was ludicrous in the extreme, and we were often obliged to repeat sentences in the conversation (to "go back to the last remark but one") because the audience laughed so loudly over humpty dumpty's expression of face that they drowned what he was trying to say. the funniest effect was the change from the look of self-satisfied complacency with which he accompanied the words: "the king has promised me--" to that of towering rage when alice innocently betrays her knowledge of the secret. at the close of the scene, when alice has vainly endeavoured to draw him into further conversation, and at last walks away in disgust, humpty loses his balance on the wall, recovers himself, totters again, and then falls off backwards; at the same time a box full of broken glass is dropped on the floor behind the scenes, to represent the "heavy crash," which "shook the forest from end to end";--and the curtain falls. now, as to how it was all done. humpty was made of barrel hoops, and covered with stiff paper and muslin. his eyes were round balls of rags, covered with muslin, drawn smoothly, and with the pupil and iris marked on the front. these eyes were pivoted to a board, fastened just behind the eye-openings in the face. to the eyeballs were sewed strong pieces of tape, which passed through screw-eyes on the edges of the board, and so down to a row of levers which were hinged in the lower part of the figure. one lever raised both eyes upward, another moved them both to the left, and so on. the eyebrows were of worsted and indiarubber knitted together. they were fastened at the ends, and raised and lowered by fine white threads passing through small holes in the face, and also operated by levers. the arms projected into the interior of the machine, and the gestures were made by moving the short ends inside. the right hand contained a spring clothes-pin, by which he was enabled to hold the note-book in which alice set down the celebrated problem-- ___ the movement of the mouth, in talking, was produced by a long tape, running down to a pedal, which was controlled by the foot of the performer. and the smile consisted of long strips of red tape, which were drawn out through slits at the corners of the mouth by means of threads which passed through holes in the sides of the head. the performer--who was always your humble servant--stood on a box behind the wall, his head just reaching the top of the egg, which was open all the way up the back. at the lower end of the figure, convenient to the hands of the performer, was the row of levers, like a little keyboard; and by striking different chords on the keys, any desired expression could be produced on the face. of course, a performance of this kind without a good alice would be unutterably flat; but the little girl who played opposite to humpty, miss nellie k---, was so exactly the counterpart of alice, both in appearance and disposition, that most children thought she was the original, right out of the book. humpty still exists, but he has not seen active life for some years. his own popularity was the cause of his retirement; for having given a number of performances (for charity, of course), and delighted many thousands of children of all ages, the demands upon his time, from sunday-schools and other institutions, became so numerous that the performers were obliged to withdraw him in self-defence. he was a great deal of trouble to build, but the success he met with and the pleasure he gave more than repaid me for the bother; and i am sure that any one else who tries it will reach the same conclusion. yours sincerely, walter lindsay. at the beginning of a fierce logical battle was being waged between lewis carroll and mr. cook wilson, professor of logic at oxford. the professor, in spite of the countless arguments that mr. dodgson hurled at his head, would not confess that he had committed a fallacy. on february th the professor appears to have conceded a point, for mr. dodgson writes: "heard from cook wilson, who has long declined to read a paper which i sent january th, and which seems to me to prove the fallacy of a view of his about hypotheticals. he now offers to read it, if _i_ will study a proof he sent, that another problem of mine had contradictory _data_. i have accepted his offer, and studied and answered his paper. so i now look forward hopefully to the result of his reading mine." the hopes which he entertained were doomed to be disappointed; the controversy bore no fruits save a few pamphlets and an enormous amount of correspondence, and finally the two antagonists had to agree to differ. as a rule mr. dodgson was a stern opponent of music-halls and music-hall singers; but he made one or two exceptions with regard to the latter. for chevalier he had nothing but praise; he heard him at one of his recitals, for he never in his life entered a "variety theatre." i give the passage from his diary:-- went to hear mr. albert chevalier's recital. i only knew of him as being now recognised as _facile princeps_ among music-hall singers, and did not remember that i had seen him twice or oftener on the stage--first as "mr. hobbs" in "little lord fauntleroy," and afterwards as a "horsy" young man in a _matinée_ in which violet vanbrugh appeared. he was decidedly _good_ as an actor; but as a comic singer (with considerable powers of pathos as well) he is quite first-rate. his chief merit seems to be the earnestness with which he throws himself into the work. the songs (mostly his own writing) were quite inoffensive, and very funny. i am very glad to be able to think that his influence on public taste is towards refinement and purity. i liked best "the future mrs. 'awkins," with its taking tune, and "my old dutch," which revealed powers that, i should think, would come out grandly in robsonian parts, such as "the porter's knot." "the little nipper" was also well worth hearing. mr. dodgson's views on sunday observance were old-fashioned, but he lived up to them, and did not try to force them upon people with whose actions he had no concern. they were purely matters of "private opinion" with him. on october nd he wrote to miss e.g. thomson, who was illustrating his "three sunsets":-- would you kindly do _no_ sketches, or photos, for _me_, on a sunday? it is, in _my_ view (of _course_ i don't condemn any one who differs from me) inconsistent with keeping the day holy. i do _not_ hold it to be the jewish "sabbath," but i _do_ hold it to be "the lord's day," and so to be made very distinct from the other days. in december, the logical controversy being over for a time, mr. dodgson invented a new problem to puzzle his mathematical friends with, which was called "the monkey and weight problem." a rope is supposed to be hung over a wheel fixed to the roof of a building; at one end of the rope a weight is fixed, which exactly counterbalances a monkey which is hanging on to the other end. suppose that the monkey begins to climb the rope, what will be the result? the following extract from the diary illustrates the several possible answers which may be given:-- got professor clifton's answer to the "monkey and weight problem." it is very curious, the different views taken by good mathematicians. price says the weight goes _up_, with increasing velocity; clifton (and harcourt) that it goes _up_, at the same rate as the monkey; while sampson says that it goes _down_. on december th mr. dodgson received the first twelve copies of "sylvie and bruno concluded," just about four years after the appearance of the first part of the story. in this second volume the two fairy children are as delightful as ever; it also contains what i think most people will agree to be the most beautiful poem lewis carroll ever wrote, "say, what is the spell, when her fledglings are cheeping?" (p. ). in the preface he pays a well-deserved compliment to mr. harry furniss for his wonderfully clever pictures; he also explains how the book was written, showing that many of the amusing remarks of bruno had been uttered by real children. he makes allusion to two books, which only his death prevented him from finishing--"original games and puzzles," and a paper on "sport," viewed from the standpoint of the humanitarian. from a literary point of view the second volume of "sylvie and bruno" lacks unity; a fairy tale is all very well, and a novel also is all very well, but the combination of the two is surely a mistake. however, the reader who cares more for the spirit than the letter will not notice this blemish; to him "sylvie and bruno concluded" will be interesting and helpful, as the revelation of a very beautiful personality. you have made everything turn out just as i should have chosen [writes a friend to whom he had sent a copy], and made right all that disappointed me in the first part. i have not only to thank you for writing an interesting book, but for writing a helpful one too. i am sure that "sylvie and bruno" has given me many thoughts that will help me all life through. one cannot know "sylvie" without being the better for it. you may say that "mister sir" is not consciously meant to be yourself, but i cannot help feeling that he is. as "mister sir" talks, i hear your voice in every word. i think, perhaps, that is why i like the book so much. i have received an interesting letter from mr. furniss, bearing upon the subject of "sylvie and bruno," and lewis carroll's methods of work. the letter runs as follows:-- i have illustrated stories of most of our leading authors, and i can safely say that lewis carroll was the only one who cared to understand the illustrations to his own book. he was the w. s. gilbert for children, and, like gilbert producing one of his operas, lewis carroll took infinite pains to study every detail in producing his extraordinary and delightful books. mr. gilbert, as every one knows, has a model of the stage; he puts up the scenery, draws every figure, moves them about just as he wishes the real actors to move about. lewis carroll was precisely the same. this, of course, led to a great deal of work and trouble, and made the illustrating of his books more a matter of artistic interest than of professional profit. i was _seven years_ illustrating his last work, and during that time i had the pleasure of many an interesting meeting with the fascinating author, and i was quite repaid for the trouble i took, not only by his generous appreciation of my efforts, but by the liberal remuneration he gave for the work, and also by the charm of having intercourse with the interesting, if somewhat erratic genius. a book very different in character from "sylvie and bruno," but under the same well-known pseudonym, appeared about the same time. i refer to "pillow problems," the second part of the series entitled "curiosa mathematica." "pillow problems thought out during wakeful hours" is a collection of mathematical problems, which mr. dodgson solved while lying awake at night. a few there are to which the title is not strictly applicable, but all alike were worked out mentally before any diagram or word of the solution was committed to paper. the author says that his usual practice was to write down the _answer_ first of all, and afterwards the question and its solution. his motive, he says, for publishing these problems was not from any desire to display his powers of mental calculation. those who knew him will readily believe this, though they will hardly be inclined to accept his own modest estimate of those powers. still the book was intended, not for the select few who can scale the mountain heights of advanced mathematics, but for the much larger class of ordinary mathematicians, and they at least will be able to appreciate the gifted author, and to wonder how he could follow so clearly in his head the mental diagrams and intricate calculations involved in some of these "pillow problems." his chief motive in publishing the book was to show how, by a little determination, the mind "can be made to concentrate itself on some intellectual subject (not necessarily mathematics), and thus banish those petty troubles and vexations which most people experience, and which--unless the mind be otherwise occupied--_will_ persist in invading the hours of night." and this remedy, as he shows, serves a higher purpose still. in a paragraph which deserves quoting at length, as it gives us a momentary glimpse of his refined and beautiful character, he says:-- perhaps i may venture for a moment to use a more serious tone, and to point out that there are mental troubles, much worse than mere worry, for which an absorbing object of thought may serve as a remedy. there are sceptical thoughts, which seem for the moment to uproot the firmest faith: there are blasphemous thoughts, which dart unbidden into the most reverent souls: there are unholy thoughts, which torture with their hateful presence the fancy that would fain be pure. against all these some real mental work is a most helpful ally. that "unclean spirit" of the parable, who brought back with him seven others more wicked than himself, only did so because he found the chamber "swept and garnished," and its owner sitting with folded hands. had he found it all alive with the "busy hum" of active _work_, there would have been scant welcome for him and his seven! it would have robbed the book of its true character if lewis carroll had attempted to improve on the work done in his head, and consequently we have the solutions exactly as he worked them out before setting them down on paper. of the problems themselves there is not much to be said here; they are original, and some of them (e.g., no. ) expressed in a style peculiarly the author's own. the subjects included in their range are arithmetic, algebra, pure geometry (plane), trigonometry, algebraic geometry, and differential calculus; and there is one problem to which mr. dodgson says he "can proudly point," in "transcendental probabilities," which is here given: "a bag contains two counters, as to which nothing is known except that each is either black or white. ascertain their colour without taking them out of the bag." the answer is, "one is black and the other white." for the solution the reader is referred to the book itself, a study of which will well repay him, apart from the chance he may have of discovering some mistake, and the consequent joy thereat! a few extracts from the diary follow, written during the early part of :-- _feb._ _st.--dies notandus._ as ragg was reading prayers, and bayne and i were the only m.a.'s in the stalls, i tried the experiment of going to the lectern and reading the lesson. i did not hesitate much, but feel it too great a strain on the nerves to be tried often. then i went to the latin chapel for holy communion. only paget (dean) and dr. huntley came: so, for the first time in my recollection, it had to be given up. then i returned to my rooms, and found in _the standard_ the very important communication from gladstone denying the rumour that he has decided upon resigning the premiership, but admitting that, owing to failing powers, it may come at any moment. it will make a complete change in the position of politics! then i got, from cook wilson, what i have been so long trying for--an accepted transcript of the fallacious argument over which we have had an (apparently) endless fight. i think the end is near, _now_. _feb._ _th._--the idea occurred to me that it might be a pleasant variation in backgammon to throw _three_ dice, and choose any two of the three numbers. the average quality of the throws would be much raised. i reckon that the chance of " , " would be about two and a half what it now is. it would also furnish a means, similar to giving points in billiards, for equalising players: the weaker might use three dice, the other using two. i think of calling it "thirdie backgammon." _march_ _st._--have just got printed, as a leaflet, "a disputed point in logic"--the point professor wilson and i have been arguing so long. this paper is wholly in his own words, and puts the point very clearly. i think of submitting it to all my logical friends. "a disputed point in logic" appeared also, i believe, in _mind_, july, . this seems a fitting place in which to speak of a side of mr. dodgson's character of which he himself was naturally very reticent--his wonderful generosity. my own experience of him was of a man who was always ready to do one a kindness, even though it put him to great expense and inconvenience; but of course i did not know, during his lifetime, that my experience of him was the same as that of all his other friends. the income from his books and other sources, which might have been spent in a life of luxury and selfishness, he distributed lavishly where he saw it was needed, and in order to do this he always lived in the most simple way. to make others happy was the golden rule of his life. on august st he wrote, in a letter to a friend, miss mary brown: "and now what am i to tell you about myself? to say i am quite well 'goes without saying' with me. in fact, my life is so strangely free from all trial and trouble that i cannot doubt my own happiness is one of the talents entrusted to me to 'occupy' with, till the master shall return, by doing something to make other lives happy." in several instances, where friends in needy circumstances have written to him for loans of money, he has answered them, "i will not _lend_, but i will _give_ you the £ you ask for." to help child-friends who wanted to go on the stage, or to take up music as a profession, he has introduced them to leading actors and actresses, paid for them having lessons in singing from the best masters, sent round circulars to his numerous acquaintances begging them to patronise the first concert or recital. in writing his books he never attempted to win popularity by acceding to the prejudices and frailties of the age--his one object was to make his books useful and helpful and ennobling. like the great master, in whose steps he so earnestly strove to follow, he "went about doing good." and one is glad to think that even his memory is being made to serve the same purpose. the "alice" cots are a worthy sequel to his generous life. even mr. dodgson, with all his boasted health, was not absolutely proof against disease, for on february , , he writes:-- tenth day of a rather bad attack of influenza of the ague type. last night the fever rose to a great height, partly caused by a succession of _five_ visitors. one, however, was of my own seeking--dean paget, to whom i was thankful to be able to tell all i have had in my mind for a year or more, as to our chapel services _not_ being as helpful as they could be made. the chief fault is extreme _rapidity_. i long ago gave up the attempt to say the confession at that pace; and now i say it, and the lord's prayer, close together, and never hear a word of the absolution. also many of the lessons are quite unedifying. on july th he wrote to my brother on the subject of a paper about eternal punishment, which was to form the first of a series of essays on religious difficulties:-- i am sending you the article on "eternal punishment" as it is. there is plenty of matter for consideration, as to which i shall be glad to know your views. also if there are other points, connected with religion, where you feel that perplexing difficulties exist, i should be glad to know of them in order to see whether i can see my way to saying anything helpful. but i had better add that i do not want to deal with any such difficulties, _unless_ they tend to affect _life. speculative_ difficulties which do not affect conduct, and which come into collision with any of the principles which i intend to state as axioms, lie outside the scope of my book. these axioms are:-- ( ) human conduct is capable of being _right_, and of being _wrong_. ( ) i possess free-will, and am able to choose between right and wrong. ( ) i have in some cases chosen wrong. ( ) i am responsible for choosing wrong. ( ) i am responsible to a person. ( ) this person is perfectly good. i call them axioms, because i have no _proofs_ to offer for them. there will probably be others, but these are all i can think of just now. the rev. h. hopley, vicar of westham, has sent me the following interesting account of a sermon mr. dodgson preached at his church:-- in the autumn of the vicar of eastbourne was to have preached my harvest sermon at westham, a village five miles away; but something or other intervened, and in the middle of the week i learned he could not come. a mutual friend suggested my asking mr. dodgson, who was then in eastbourne, to help me, and i went with him to his rooms. i was quite a stranger to mr. dodgson; but knowing from hearsay how reluctant he usually was to preach, i apologised and explained my position--with sunday so near at hand. after a moment's hesitation he consented, and in a most genial manner made me feel quite at ease as to the abruptness of my petition. on the morrow he came over to my vicarage, and made friends with my daughters, teaching them some new manner of playing croquet [probably castle croquet], and writing out for them puzzles and anagrams that he had composed. the following letter was forwarded on the saturday:-- " , lushington road, eastbourne, _september_ , . dear mr. hopley,--i think you will excuse the liberty i am taking in asking you to give me some food after the service on sunday, so that i may have no need to catch the train, but can walk back at leisure. this will save me from the worry of trying to conclude at an exact minute, and you, perhaps, from the trouble of finding short hymns, to save time. it will not, i hope, cause your cook any trouble, as my regular rule here is _cold_ dinner on sundays. this not from any "sabbatarian" theory, but from the wish to let our _employés_ have the day _wholly_ at their own disposal. i beg miss hopley's acceptance of the enclosed papers-- (puzzles and diagrams.) believe me, very truly yours, c.l. dodgson." on sunday our grand old church was crowded, and, although our villagers are mostly agricultural labourers, yet they breathlessly listened to a sermon forty minutes long, and apparently took in every word of it. it was quite extempore, in very simple words, and illustrated by some delightful and most touching stories of children. i only wish there had been a shorthand-writer there. in the vestry after service, while he was signing his name in the preachers' book, a church officer handed him a bit of paper. "mr. dodgson, would you very kindly write your name on that?" "sir!" drawing himself up sternly--"sir, i never do that for any one"--and then, more kindly, "you see, if i did it for one, i must do it for all." an amusing incident in mr. dodgson's life is connected with the well-known drama, "two little vagabonds." i give the story as he wrote it in his diary:-- _nov._ _th.--matinée_ at the princess's of "two little vagabonds," a very sensational melodrama, capitally acted. "dick" and "wally" were played by kate tyndall and sydney fairbrother, whom i guess to be about fifteen and twelve. both were excellent, and the latter remarkable for the perfect realism of her acting. there was some beautiful religious dialogue between "wally" and a hospital nurse-- most reverently spoken, and reverently received by the audience. _dec._ _th._--i have given books to kate tyndall and sydney fairbrother, and have heard from them, and find i was entirely mistaken in taking them for children. both are married women! the following is an extract from a letter written in to one of his sisters, in allusion to a death which had recently occurred in the family:-- it is getting increasingly difficult now to remember _which_ of one's friends remain alive, and _which_ have gone "into the land of the great departed, into the silent land." also, such news comes less and less as a shock, and more and more one realises that it is an experience each of _us_ has to face before long. that fact is getting _less_ dreamlike to me now, and i sometimes think what a grand thing it will be to be able to say to oneself, "death is _over_ now; there is not _that_ experience to be faced again." i am beginning to think that, if the _books i_ am still hoping to write are to be done _at all,_ they must be done _now_, and that i am _meant_ thus to utilise the splendid health i have had, unbroken, for the last year and a half, and the working powers that are fully as great as, if not greater, than i have ever had. i brought with me here (this letter was written from eastbourne) the ms., such as it is (very fragmentary and unarranged) for the book about religious difficulties, and i meant, when i came here, to devote myself to that, but i have changed my plan. it seems to me that _that_ subject is one that hundreds of living men could do, if they would only try, _much_ better than i could, whereas there is no living man who could (or at any rate who would take the trouble to) arrange and finish and publish the second part of the "logic." also, i _have_ the logic book in my head; it will only need three or four months to write out, and i have _not_ got the other book in my head, and it might take years to think out. so i have decided to get part ii. finished _first_, and i am working at it day and night. i have taken to early rising, and sometimes sit down to my work before seven, and have one and a half hours at it before breakfast. the book will be a great novelty, and will help, i fully believe, to make the study of logic _far_ easier than it now is. and it will, i also believe, be a help to religious thought by giving _clearness_ of conception and of expression, which may enable many people to face, and conquer, many religious difficulties for themselves. so i do really regard it as work for _god_. another letter, written a few months later to miss dora abdy, deals with the subject of "reverence," which mr. dodgson considered a virtue not held in sufficient esteem nowadays:-- my dear dora,--in correcting the proofs of "through the looking-glass" (which is to have "an easter greeting" inserted at the end), i am reminded that in that letter (i enclose a copy), i had tried to express my thoughts on the very subject we talked about last night--the relation of _laughter_ to religious thought. one of the hardest things in the world is to convey a meaning accurately from one mind to another, but the _sort_ of meaning i want to convey to other minds is that while the laughter of _joy_ is in full harmony with our deeper life, the laughter of amusement should be kept apart from it. the danger is too great of thus learning to look at solemn things in a spirit of _mockery_, and to seek in them opportunities for exercising _wit_. that is the spirit which has spoiled, for me, the beauty of some of the bible. surely there is a deep meaning in our prayer, "give us an heart to love and _dread_ thee." we do not mean _terror_: but a dread that will harmonise with love; "respect" we should call it as towards a human being, "reverence" as towards god and all religious things. yours affectionately, c.l. dodgson. in his "game of logic" lewis carroll introduced an original method of working logical problems by means of diagrams; this method he superseded in after years for a much simpler one, the method of "subscripts." in "symbolic logic, part i." (london: macmillan, ) he employed both methods. the introduction is specially addressed "to learners," whom lewis carroll advises to read the book straight through, without _dipping_. this rule [he says] is very desirable with other kinds of books--such as novels, for instance, where you may easily spoil much of the enjoyment you would otherwise get from the story by dipping into it further on, so that what the author meant to be a pleasant surprise comes to you as a matter of course. some people, i know, make a practice of looking into vol. iii. first, just to see how the story ends; and perhaps it _is_ as well just to know that all ends _happily_--that the much persecuted lovers _do_ marry after all, that he is proved to be quite innocent of the murder, that the wicked cousin is completely foiled in his plot, and gets the punishment he deserves, and that the rich uncle in india (_qu._ why in _india? ans._ because, somehow, uncles never _can_ get rich anywhere else) dies at exactly the right moment--before taking the trouble to read vol i. this, i say, is _just_ permissible with a _novel_, where vol. iii. has a _meaning_, even for those who have not read the earlier part of the story; but with a _scientific_ book, it is sheer insanity. you will find the latter part _hopelessly_ unintelligible, if you read it before reaching it in regular course. * * * * * chapter ix ( - ) logic-lectures--irreverent anecdotes--tolerance of his religious views--a mathematical discovery--"the little minister" sir george baden-powell--last illness--"thy will be done"--"wonderland" at last!--letters from friends "three sunsets"--"of such is the kingdom of heaven." the year , the last complete year which he was destined to spend, began for mr. dodgson at guildford. on january rd he preached in the morning at the beautiful old church of s. mary's, the church which he always attended when he was staying with his sisters at the chestnuts. on the th he began a course of logic lectures at abbot's hospital. the rev. a. kingston, late curate of holy trinity and s. mary's parishes, guildford, had requested him to do this, and he had given his promise if as many as six people could be got together to hear him. mr. kingston canvassed the town so well that an audience of about thirty attended the first lecture. [illustration: lewis carroll. _from a photograph._] a long sunday walk was always a feature of mr. dodgson's life in the vacations. in earlier years the late mr. w. watson was his usual companion at guildford. the two men were in some respects very much alike; a peculiar gentleness of character, a winning charm of manner which no one could resist, distinguished them both. after mr. watson's death his companion was usually one of the following guildford clergymen: the rev. j.h. robson, ll.d., the rev. h.r. ware, and the rev. a. kingston. on the th mr. dodgson paid a visit to the girls' high school, to show the pupils some mathematical puzzles, and to teach the elder ones his "memoria technica." on the th he returned to oxford, so as to be up in time for term. i have said that he always refused invitations to dinner; accordingly his friends who knew of this peculiarity, and wished to secure him for a special evening, dared not actually invite him, but wrote him little notes stating that on such and such days they would be dining at home. thus there is an entry in his journal for february th: "dined with mrs. g--(she had not sent an 'invitation'--only 'information')." his system of symbolic logic enabled him to work out the most complex problems with absolute certainty in a surprisingly short time. thus he wrote on the th: "made a splendid logic-problem, about "great-grandsons" (modelled on one by de morgan). my method of solution is quite new, and i greatly doubt if any one will solve the problem. i have sent it to cook wilson." on march th he preached in the university church, the first occasion on which he had done so:-- there is now [he writes] a system established of a course of six sermons at s. mary's each year, for university men _only_, and specially meant for undergraduates. they are preached, preceded by a few prayers and a hymn, at half-past eight. this evening ended the course for this term: and it was my great privilege to preach. it has been the most formidable sermon i have ever had to preach, and it is a _great_ relief to have it over. i took, as text, job xxviii. , "and unto man he said, the fear of the lord, that is wisdom"--and the prayer in the litany "give us an heart to love and dread thee." it lasted three-quarters of an hour. one can imagine how he would have treated the subject. the views which he held on the subject of reverence were, so at least it appears to me, somewhat exaggerated; they are well expressed in a letter which he wrote to a friend of his, during the year, and which runs as follows:-- dear--, after changing my mind several times, i have at last decided to venture to ask a favour of you, and to trust that you will not misinterpret my motives in doing so. the favour i would ask is, that you will not tell me any more stories, such as you did on friday, of remarks which children are said to have made on very sacred subjects-- remarks which most people would recognise as irreverent, if made by _grown-up people_, but which are assumed to be innocent when made by children who are unconscious of any irreverence, the strange conclusion being drawn that they are therefore innocent when _repeated_ by a grown-up person. the misinterpretation i would guard against is, your supposing that i regard such repetition as always _wrong_ in any grown-up person. let me assure you that i do _not_ so regard it. i am always willing to believe that those who repeat such stories differ wholly from myself in their views of what is, and what is not, fitting treatment of sacred things, and i fully recognise that what would certainly be wrong in _me_, is not necessarily so in _them_. so i simply ask it as a personal favour to myself. the hearing of that anecdote gave me so much pain, and spoiled so much the pleasure of my tiny dinner-party, that i feel sure you will kindly spare me such in future. one further remark. there are quantities of such anecdotes going about. i don't in the least believe that per cent. of them were ever said by _children_. i feel sure that most of them are concocted by people who _wish_ to bring sacred subjects into ridicule--sometimes by people who _wish_ to undermine the belief that others have in religious truths: for there is no surer way of making one's beliefs _unreal_ than by learning to associate them with ludicrous ideas. forgive the freedom with which i have said all this. sincerely yours, c.l. dodgson. the entry in the diary for april th (sunday) is interesting:-- went my eighteen-mile round by besilsleigh. from my rooms back to them again, took me five hours and twenty-seven minutes. had "high tea" at twenty minutes past seven. this entails only leaving a plate of cold meat, and gives much less trouble than hot dinner at six. dinner at six has been my rule since january st, when it began--i then abandoned the seven o'clock sunday dinner, of which i entirely disapprove. it has prevented, for two terms, the college servants' service. on may th he wrote:-- as the prince of wales comes this afternoon to open the town hall, i went round to the deanery to invite them to come through my rooms upon the roof, to see the procession arrive.... a party of about twenty were on my roof in the afternoon, including mrs. moberly, mrs. driver, and mrs. baynes, and most, if not all, of the children in christ church. dinner in hall at eight. the dean had the prince on his right, and lord salisbury on his left. my place was almost _vis-à-vis_ with the prince. he and the dean were the only speakers. we did not get out of hall till nearly ten. in june he bought a "whiteley exerciser," and fixed it up in his rooms. one would have thought that he would have found his long walks sufficient exercise (an eighteen-mile round was, as we have seen, no unusual thing for him to undertake), but apparently it was not so. he was so pleased with the "exerciser," that he bought several more of them, and made presents of them to his friends. as an instance of his broad-mindedness, the following extract from his diary for june th is interesting. it must be premised that e--was a young friend of his who had recently become a member of the roman catholic church, and that their place of worship in oxford is dedicated to s. aloysius. i went with e-- to s. aloysius. there was much beauty in the service, part of which consisted in a procession, with banner, all round the church, carrying the host, preceded by a number of girls in white, with veils (who had all had their first communion that morning), strewing flowers. many of them were quite little things of about seven. the sermon (by father richardson) was good and interesting, and in a very loyal tone about the queen. a letter he wrote some years before to a friend who had asked him about his religious opinions reveals the same catholicity of mind:-- i am a member of the english church, and have taken deacon's orders, but did not think fit (for reasons i need not go into) to take priest's orders. my dear father was what is called a "high churchman," and i naturally adopted those views, but have always felt repelled by the yet higher development called "ritualism." but i doubt if i am fully a "high churchman" now. i find that as life slips away (i am over fifty now), and the life on the other side of the great river becomes more and more the reality, of which _this_ is only a shadow, that the petty distinctions of the many creeds of christendom tend to slip away as well--leaving only the great truths which all christians believe alike. more and more, as i read of the christian religion, as christ preached it, i stand amazed at the forms men have given to it, and the fictitious barriers they have built up between themselves and their brethren. i believe that when you and i come to lie down for the last time, if only we can keep firm hold of the great truths christ taught us--our own utter worthlessness and his infinite worth; and that he has brought us back to our one father, and made us his brethren, and so brethren to one another--we shall have all we need to guide us through the shadows. most assuredly i accept to the full the doctrines you refer to--that christ died to save us, that we have no other way of salvation open to us but through his death, and that it is by faith in him, and through no merit of ours, that we are reconciled to god; and most assuredly i can cordially say, "i owe all to him who loved me, and died on the cross of calvary." he spent the long vacation at eastbourne as usual, frequently walking over to hastings, which is about twenty miles off. a good many of his mornings were spent in giving lectures and telling stories at schools. a letter to the widow of an old college friend reveals the extraordinary sensitiveness of his nature:-- , bedford well road, eastbourne, _august_ , . my dear mrs. woodhouse,--your letter, with its mournful news, followed me down here, and i only got it on saturday night; so i was not able to be with you in thought when the mortal remains of my dear old friend were being committed to the ground; to await the time when our heavenly father shall have accomplished the number of his elect, and when you and i shall once more meet the loved ones from whom we are, for a little while only--what a little while even a long human life lasts!--parted in sorrow, yet _not_ sorrowing as those without hope. you will be sure without words of mine, that you have my true and deep sympathy. of all the friends i made at ch. ch., your husband was the very _first_ who spoke to me--across the dinner-table in hall. that is forty-six years ago, but i remember, as if it were only yesterday, the kindly smile with which he spoke.... september th and th are marked in his diary "with a white stone":-- _sept. th.--dies notandus._ discovered rule for dividing a number by , by mere addition and subtraction. i felt sure there must be an analogous one for , and found it, and proved first rule by algebra, after working about nine hours! _sept. th.--dies cretâ notandus._ i have actually _superseded_ the rules discovered yesterday! my new rules require to ascertain the -remainder, and the -remainder, which the others did _not_ require; but the new ones are much the quickest. i shall send them to _the educational times_, with date of discovery. on november th he wrote:-- completed a rule for dividing a given number by any divisor that is within of a power of , either way. the _principle_ of it is not my discovery, but was sent me by bertram collingwood--a rule for dividing by a divisor which is within of a power of , _below_ it. my readers will not be surprised to learn that only eight days after this he had superseded his rule:-- an inventive morning! after waking, and before i had finished dressing, i had devised a new and much neater form in which to work my rules for long division, and also decided to bring out my "games and puzzles," and part iii. of "curiosa mathematica," in _numbers_, in paper covers, paged consecutively, to be ultimately issued in boards. on november th he spent the day in london, with the object of seeing "the little minister" at the haymarket. "a beautiful play, beautifully acted," he calls it, and says that he should like to see it "again and again." he especially admired the acting of mrs. cyril maude (miss winifred emery) as lady babbie. this was the last theatrical performance he ever witnessed. he apparently kept rough notes for his diary, and only wrote it up every few weeks, as there are no entries at all for , nor even for the last week of . the concluding page runs as follows:-- _dec. (w.) a.m._--i am in my large room, with no fire, and open window--temperature degrees. _dec. (f.)._--maggie [one of his sisters], and our nieces nella and violet, came to dinner. _dec. (sun.)._--sat up last night till a.m., over a tempting problem, sent me from new york, "to find equal rational-sided rt.-angled _triangles_." i found _two_, whose sides are , , ; , , ; but could not find _three_. _dec. (th.)._--i start for guildford by the . today. as my story of lewis carroll's life draws near its end, i have received some "stray reminiscences" from sir george baden-powell, m.p., which, as they refer to several different periods of time, are as appropriate here as in any other part of the book. the rev. e.h. dodgson, referred to in these reminiscences, is a younger brother of lewis carroll's; he spent several years of his life upon the remote island of tristan d'acunha, where there were only about seventy or eighty inhabitants besides himself. about once a year a ship used to call, when the island-folk would exchange their cattle for cloth, corn, tea, &c., which they could not produce themselves. the island is volcanic in origin, and is exposed to the most terrific gales; the building used as a church stood at some distance from mr. dodgson's dwelling, and on one occasion the wind was so strong that he had to crawl on his hands and knees for the whole distance that separated the two buildings. my first introduction (writes sir george baden-powell) to the author of "through the looking-glass" was about the year or , and under appropriate conditions! i was then coaching at oxford with the well-known rev. e. hatch, and was on friendly terms with his bright and pretty children. entering his house one day, and facing the dining-room, i heard mysterious noises under the table, and saw the cloth move as if some one were hiding. children's legs revealed it as no burglar, and there was nothing for it but to crawl upon them, roaring as a lion. bursting in upon them in their strong-hold under the table, i was met by the staid but amused gaze of a reverend gentleman. frequently afterwards did i see and hear "lewis carroll" entertaining the youngsters in his inimitable way. we became friends, and greatly did i enjoy intercourse with him over various minor oxford matters. in later years, at one time i saw much of him, in quite another _rôle_--namely that of ardent sympathy with the, as he thought, ill-treated and deserted islanders of tristan d'acunha. his brother, it will be remembered, had voluntarily been left at that island with a view to ministering to the spiritual and educational needs of the few settlers, and sent home such graphic accounts and urgent demands for aid, that "lewis carroll" spared no pains to organise assistance and relief. at his instance i brought the matter before government and the house of commons, and from that day to this frequent communication has been held with the islanders, and material assistance has been rendered them--thanks to the warm heart of "lewis carroll." on december , , as the note in his diary states, he went down, in accordance with his usual custom, to guildford, to spend christmas with his sisters at the chestnuts. he seemed to be in his ordinary health, and in the best of spirits, and there was nothing to show that the end was so near. [illustration: the chestnuts, guildford. _from a photograph._] at guildford he was hard at work upon the second part of his "symbolic logic," spending most of the day over this task. this book, alas! he was not destined to finish, which is the more to be regretted as it will be exceedingly difficult for any one else to take up the thread of the argument, even if any one could be found willing to give the great amount of time and trouble which would be needed. on january th my father, the rev. c.s. collingwood, rector of southwick, near sunderland, died after a very short illness. the telegram which brought mr. dodgson the news of this contained the request that he would come at once. he determined to travel north the next day--but it was not to be so. an attack of influenza, which began only with slight hoarseness, yet enough to prevent him from following his usual habit of reading family prayers, was pronounced next morning to be sufficiently serious to forbid his undertaking a journey. at first his illness seemed a trifle, but before a week had passed bronchial symptoms had developed, and dr. gabb, the family physician, ordered him to keep his bed. his breathing rapidly became hard and laborious, and he had to be propped up with pillows. a few days before his death he asked one of his sisters to read him that well-known hymn, every verse of which ends with 'thy will be done.' to another he said that his illness was a great trial of his patience. how great a trial it must have been it is hard for us to understand. with the work he had set himself still uncompleted, with a sense of youth and joyousness, which sixty years of the battle of life had in no way dulled, lewis carroll had to face death. he seemed to know that the struggle was over. "take away those pillows," he said on the th, "i shall need them no more." the end came about half-past two on the afternoon of the th. one of his sisters was in the room at the time, and she only noticed that the hard breathing suddenly ceased. the nurse, whom she summoned, at first hoped that this was a sign that he had taken a turn for the better. and so, indeed, he had--he had passed from a world of incompleteness and disappointment, to another where god is putting his beautiful soul to nobler and grander work than was possible for him here, where he is learning to comprehend those difficulties which used to puzzle him so much, and where that infinite love, which he mirrored so wonderfully in his own life, is being revealed to him "face to face." in accordance with his expressed wish, the funeral was simple in the extreme--flowers, and flowers only, adorned the plain coffin. there was no hearse to drag it up the steep incline that leads to the beautiful cemetery where he lies. the service was taken by dean paget and canon grant, rector of holy trinity and s. mary's, guildford. the mourners who followed him in the quiet procession were few--but the mourners who were not there, and many of whom had never seen him--who shall tell _their_ number? after the grave had been filled up, the wreaths which had covered the coffin were placed upon it. many were from "child-friends" and bore such inscriptions as "from two of his child-friends"--"to the sweetest soul that ever looked with human eyes," &c. then the mourners left him alone there--up on the pleasant downs where he had so often walked. a marble cross, under the shadow of a pine, marks the spot, and beneath his own name they have engraved the name of "lewis carroll," that the children who pass by may remember their friend, who is now--himself a child in all that makes childhood most attractive--in that "wonderland" which outstrips all our dreams and hopes. i cannot forbear quoting from professor sanday's sermon at christ church on the sunday after his death:-- the world will think of lewis carroll as one who opened out a new vein in literature, a new and a delightful vein, which added at once mirth and refinement to life.... may we not say that from our courts at christ church there has flowed into the literature of our time a rill, bright and sparkling, health-giving and purifying, wherever its waters extend? [illustration: lewis carroll's grave. _from a photograph._] on the following sunday dean paget, in the course of a sermon on the "virtue of simplicity," said:-- we may differ, according to our difference of taste or temperament, in appraising charles dodgson's genius; but that that great gift was his, that his best work ranks with the very best of its kind, this has been owned with a recognition too wide and spontaneous to leave room for doubt. the brilliant, venturesome imagination, defying forecast with ever-fresh surprise; the sense of humour in its finest and most naïve form; the power to touch with lightest hand the undercurrent of pathos in the midst of fun; the audacity of creative fancy, and the delicacy of insight--these are rare gifts; and surely they were his. yes, but it was his simplicity of mind and heart that raised them all, not only in his work but in his life, in all his ways, in the man as we knew him, to something higher than any mere enumeration of them tells: that almost curious simplicity, at times, that real and touching child-likeness that marked him in all fields of thought, appearing in his love of children and in their love of him, in his dread of giving pain to any living creature, in a certain disproportion, now and then, of the view he took of things--yes, and also in that deepest life, where the pure in heart and those who become as little children see the very truth and walk in the fear and love of god. some extracts from the numerous sympathetic letters received by mr. dodgson's brothers and sisters will show how greatly his loss was felt. thus canon jelf writes:-- it was quite a shock to me to see in the paper to-day the death of your dear, good brother, to whom we owe so much of the brightening of our lives with pure, innocent fun. personally i feel his loss very much indeed. we were together in old ch. ch. days from onwards; and he was always such a loyal, faithful friend to me. i rejoice to think of the _serious_ talks we had together--of the grand, brave way in which he used the opportunities he had as a man of humour, to reach the consciences of a host of readers--of his love for children--his simplicity of heart--of his care for servants--his spiritual care for them. who can doubt that he was fully prepared for a change however sudden--for the one clear call which took him away from us? yet the world seems darker for his going; we can only get back our brightness by realising who gave him all his talent, all his mirth of heart--the one who never leaves us. in deep sympathy, yours very sincerely, george e. jelf. p.s.--when you have time tell me a little about him; he was so dear to me. mr. frederic harrison writes as follows:-- the occasional visits that i received from your late brother showed me a side of his nature which to my mind was more interesting and more worthy of remembrance even than his wonderful and delightful humour--i mean his intense sympathy with all who suffer and are in need. he came to see me several times on sundry errands of mercy, and it has been a lesson to me through life to remember his zeal to help others in difficulty, his boundless generosity, and his inexhaustible patience with folly and error. my young daughter, like all young people in civilised countries, was brought up on his beautiful fancies and humours. but for my part i remember him mainly as a sort of missionary to all in need. we all alike grieve, and offer you our heartfelt sympathy. i am, faithfully yours, frederic harrison. his old friend and tutor. dr. price, writes:-- ... i feel his removal from among us as the loss of an old and dear friend and pupil, to whom i have been most warmly attached ever since he was with me at whitby, reading mathematics, in, i think, -- years ago! and years of uninterrupted friendship .... i was pleased to read yesterday in _the times_ newspaper the kindly obituary notice: perfectly just and true; appreciative, as it should be, as to the unusual combination of deep mathematical ability and taste with the genius that led to the writing of "alice's adventures." only the other day [writes a lady friend] he wrote to me about his admiration for my dear husband, and he ended his letter thus: "i trust that when _my_ time comes, i may be found, like him, working to the last, and ready for the master's call"--and truly so he was. a friend at oxford writes:-- mr. dodgson was ever the kindest and gentlest of friends, bringing sunshine into the house with him. we shall mourn his loss deeply, and my two girls are quite overcome with grief. all day memories of countless acts of kindness shown to me, and to people i have known, have crowded my mind, and i feel it almost impossible to realise that he has passed beyond the reach of our gratitude and affection. the following are extracts from letters written by some of his "child-friends," now grown up:-- how beautiful to think of the track of light and love he has left behind him, and the amount of happiness he brought into the lives of all those he came in contact with! i shall never forget all his kindness to us, from the time he first met us as little mites in the railway train, and one feels glad to have had the privilege of knowing him. one of mr. dodgson's oldest "child-friends" writes:-- he was to me a dear and true friend, and it has been my great privilege to see a good deal of him ever since i was a tiny child, and especially during the last two years. i cannot tell you how much we shall miss him here. ch. ch. without mr. dodgson will be a strange place, and it is difficult to realise it even while we listen to the special solemn anthems and hymns to his memory in our cathedral. one who had visited him at guildford, writes:-- it must be quite sixteen years now since he first made friends with my sister and myself as children on the beach at eastbourne, and since then his friendship has been and must always be one of my most valued possessions. it culminated, i think, in the summer of --the year when he brought me to spend a very happy sunday at guildford. i had not seen him before, that year, for some time; and it was then, i think, that the childish delight in his kindness, and pride in his friendship, changed into higher love and reverence, when in our long walks over the downs i saw more and more into the great tenderness and gentleness of his nature. shortly after mr. dodgson's death, his "three sunsets" was published by messrs. macmillan. the twelve "fairy fancies," which illustrate it, were drawn by miss e. g. thomson. though they are entirely unconnected with the text, they are so thoroughly in accordance with the author's delicate refinement, and so beautiful in themselves, that they do not strike one as inappropriate. some of the verses are strangely in keeping with the time at which they are published. i could not see, for blinding tears, the glories of the west: a heavenly music filled my ears, a heavenly peace my breast. "come unto me, come unto me-- all ye that labour, unto me-- ye heavy-laden, come to me-- and i will give you rest." one cannot read this little volume without feeling that the shadow of some disappointment lay over lewis carroll's life. such i believe to have been the case, and it was this that gave him his wonderful sympathy with all who suffered. but those who loved him would not wish to lift the veil from these dead sanctities, nor would any purpose be served by so doing. the proper use of sympathy is not to weep over sorrows that are over, and whose very memory is perhaps obliterated for him in the first joy of possessing new and higher faculties. before leaving the subject of this book, i should like to draw attention to a few lines on "woman's mission," lines full of the noblest chivalry, reminding one of tennyson's "idylls of the king":-- in the darkest path of man's despair, where war and terror shake the troubled earth, lies woman's mission; with unblenching brow to pass through scenes of horror and affright where men grow sick and tremble: unto her all things are sanctified, for all are good. nothing so mean, but shall deserve her care: nothing so great, but she may bear her part. no life is vain: each hath his place assigned: do thou thy task, and leave the rest to god. of the unpublished works which mr. dodgson left behind him, i may mention "original games and puzzles"; "symbolic logic, part ii.," and a portion of a mathematical book, the proofs of which are now in the hands of the controller of the oxford university press. i will conclude this chapter with a poem which appeared in _punch_ for january th, a fortnight after lewis carroll's death. it expresses, with all the grace and insight of the true poet, what i have tried, so feebly and ineffectually, to say:-- lewis carroll. _born_ . _died january_ , . lover of children! fellow-heir with those of whom the imperishable kingdom is! beyond all dreaming now your spirit knows the unimagined mysteries. darkly as in a glass our faces look to read ourselves, if so we may, aright; you, like the maiden in your faërie book-- you step behind and see the light! the heart you wore beneath your pedant's cloak only to children's hearts you gave away; yet unaware in half the world you woke the slumbering charm of childhood's day. we older children, too, our loss lament, we of the "table round," remembering well how he, our comrade, with his pencil lent your fancy's speech a firmer spell. master of rare woodcraft, by sympathy's sure touch he caught your visionary gleams, and made your fame, the dreamer's, one with his. the wise interpreter of dreams. farewell! but near our hearts we have you yet, holding our heritage with loving hand, who may not follow where your feet are set upon the ways of wonderland.[ ] [illustration: lorina and alice liddell. _from a photograph by lewis carroll._] * * * * * chapter x child friends mr. dodgson's fondness for children--miss isabel standen--puzzles--"me and myself"--a double acrostic--"father william"--of drinking healths--kisses by post--tired in the face--the unripe plum--eccentricities--"sylvie and bruno"--"mr. dodgson is going on _well_." this chapter, and the next will deal with mr. dodgson's friendships with children. it would have been impossible to arrange them in chronological sequence in the earlier part of this book, and the fact that they exhibit a very important and distinct side of his nature seems to justify me in assigning them a special and individual position. for the contents of these two chapters, both my readers and myself owe a debt of gratitude to those child-friends of his, without whose ever-ready help this book could never have been written. from very early college days began to emerge that beautiful side of lewis carroll's character which afterwards was to be, next to his fame as an author, the one for which he was best known--his attitude towards children, and the strong attraction they had for him. i shall attempt to point out the various influences which led him in this direction; but if i were asked for one comprehensive word wide enough to explain this tendency of his nature, i would answer unhesitatingly--love. my readers will remember a beautiful verse in "sylvie and bruno"; trite though it is, i cannot forbear to quote it-- say, whose is the skill that paints valley and hill, like a picture so fair to the sight? that flecks the green meadow with sunshine and shadow, till the little lambs leap with delight? 'tis a secret untold to hearts cruel and cold, though 'tis sung by the angels above, in notes that ring clear for the ears that can hear, and the name of the secret is love! that "secret"--an open secret for him--explains this side of his character. as _he_ read everything in its light, so it is only in its light that _we_ can properly understand _him_. i think that the following quotation from a letter to the rev. f. h. atkinson, accompanying a copy of "alice" for his little daughter gertrude, sufficiently proves the truth of what i have just stated:-- many thanks to mrs. atkinson and to you for the sight of the tinted photograph of your gertrude. as you say, the picture speaks for itself, and i can see exactly what sort of a child she is, in proof of which i send her my love and a kiss herewith. it is possible i may be the first (unseen) gentleman from whom she has had so ridiculous a message; but i can't say she is the first unseen child to whom i have sent one! i think the most precious message of the kind i ever got from a child i never saw (and never shall see in this world) was to the effect that she liked me when she read about alice, "but please tell him, whenever i read that easter letter he sent me i _do_ love him!" she was in a hospital, and a lady friend who visited there had asked me to send the letter to her and some other sick children. and now as to the secondary causes which attracted him to children. first, i think children appealed to him because he was pre-eminently a teacher, and he saw in their unspoiled minds the best material for him to work upon. in later years one of his favourite recreations was to lecture at schools on logic; he used to give personal attention to each of his pupils, and one can well imagine with what eager anticipation the children would have looked forward to the visits of a schoolmaster who knew how to make even the dullest subjects interesting and amusing. again, children appealed to his æsthetic faculties, for he was a keen admirer of the beautiful in every form. poetry, music, the drama, all delighted him, but pictures more than all put together. i remember his once showing me "the lady with the lilacs," which arthur hughes had painted for him, and how he dwelt with intense pleasure on the exquisite contrasts of colour which it contained--the gold hair of a girl standing out against the purple of lilac-blossom. but with those who find in such things as these a complete satisfaction of their desire for the beautiful he had no sympathy; for no imperfect representations of life could, for him, take the place of life itself, life as god has made it--the babbling of the brook, the singing of the birds, the laughter and sweet faces of the children. and yet, recognising, as he did, what mr. pater aptly terms "the curious perfection of the human form," in man, as in nature, it was the soul that attracted him more than the body. his intense admiration, one might almost call it adoration, for the white innocence and uncontaminated spirituality of childhood emerges most clearly in "sylvie and bruno." he says very little of the personal beauty of his heroine; he might have asked, with mr. francis thompson-- how can i tell what beauty is her dole, who cannot see her countenance for her soul? so entirely occupied is he with her gentleness, her pity, her sincerity, and her love. again, the reality of children appealed strongly to the simplicity and genuineness of his own nature. i believe that he understood children even better than he understood men and women; civilisation has made adult humanity very incomprehensible, for convention is as a veil which hides the divine spark that is in each of us, and so this strange thing has come to be, that the imperfect mirrors perfection more completely than the perfected, that we see more of god in the child than in the man. and in those moments of depression of which he had his full share, when old age seemed to mock him with all its futility and feebleness, it was the thought that the children still loved him which nerved him again to continue his life-work, which renewed his youth, so that to his friends he never seemed an old man. even the hand of death itself only made his face look more boyish--the word is not too strong. "how wonderfully young your brother looks!" were the first words the doctor said, as he returned from the room where lewis carroll's body lay, to speak to the mourners below. and so he loved children because their friendship was the true source of his perennial youth and unflagging vigour. this idea is expressed in the following poem--an acrostic, which he wrote for a friend some twenty years ago:-- around my lonely hearth, to-night, ghostlike the shadows wander: now here, now there, a childish sprite, earthborn and yet as angel bright, seems near me as i ponder. gaily she shouts: the laughing air echoes her note of gladness-- or bends herself with earnest care round fairy-fortress to prepare grim battlement or turret-stair-- in childhood's merry madness! new raptures still hath youth in store: age may but fondly cherish half-faded memories of yore-- up, craven heart! repine no more! love stretches hands from shore to shore: love is, and shall not perish! his first child-friend, so far as i know, was miss alice liddell, the little companion whose innocent talk was one of the chief pleasures of his early life at oxford, and to whom he told the tale that was to make him famous. in december, , miss m.e. manners presented him with a little volume, of which she was the authoress, "aunt agatha ann and other verses," and which contained a poem (which i quoted in chapter vi.), about "alice." writing to acknowledge this gift, lewis carroll said:-- permit me to offer you my sincere thanks for the very sweet verses you have written about my dream-child (named after a real alice, but none the less a dream-child) and her wonderland. that children love the book is a very precious thought to me, and, next to their love, i value the sympathy of those who come with a child's heart to what i have tried to write about a child's thoughts. next to what conversing with an angel _might_ be--for it is hard to imagine it--comes, i think, the privilege of having a real child's thoughts uttered to one. i have known some few _real_ children (you have too, i am sure), and their friendship is a blessing and a help in life. [illustration: alice liddell. _from a photograph by lewis carroll._] it is interesting to note how in "sylvie and bruno" his idea of the thoughts of a child has become deeper and more spiritual. yet in the earlier tale, told "all in a golden afternoon," to the plash of oars and the swish of a boat through the waters of cherwell or thames, the ideal child is strangely beautiful; she has all sylvie's genuineness and honesty, all her keen appreciation of the interest of life; only there lacks that mysterious charm of deep insight into the hidden forces of nature, the gentle power that makes the sky "such a darling blue," which almost links sylvie with the angels. another of lewis carroll's early favourites was miss alexandra (xie) kitchin, daughter of the dean of durham. her father was for fifteen years the censor of the unattached members of the university of oxford, so that mr. dodgson had plenty of opportunities of photographing his little friend, and it is only fair to him to say that he did not neglect them. it would be futile to attempt even a bare list of the children whom he loved, and who loved him; during forty years of his life he was constantly adding to their number. some remained friends for life, but in a large proportion of cases the friendship ended with the end of childhood. to one of those few, whose affection for him had not waned with increasing years, he wrote:-- i always feel specially grateful to friends who, like you, have given me a child-friendship and a woman-friendship. about nine out of ten, i think, of my child-friendships get ship-wrecked at the critical point, "where the stream and river meet," and the child-friends, once so affectionate, become uninteresting acquaintances, whom i have no wish to set eyes on again. [illustration: xie kitchin. _from a photograph by lewis carroll._] these friendships usually began all very much in the same way. a chance meeting on the sea-shore, in the street, at some friend's house, led to conversation; then followed a call on the parents, and after that all sorts of kindnesses on lewis carroll's part, presents of books, invitations to stay with him at oxford, or at eastbourne, visits with him to the theatre. for the amusement of his little guests he kept a large assortment of musical-boxes, and an organette which had to be fed with paper tunes. on one occasion he ordered about twelve dozen of these tunes "on approval," and asked one of the other dons, who was considered a judge of music, to come in and hear them played over. in addition to these attractions there were clock-work bears, mice, and frogs, and games and puzzles in infinite variety. one of his little friends, miss isabel standen, has sent me the following account of her first meeting with him:-- we met for the first time in the forbury gardens, reading. he was, i believe, waiting for a train. i was playing with my brothers and sisters in the gardens. i remember his taking me on his knee and showing me puzzles, one of which he refers to in the letter (given below. this puzzle was, by the way, a great favourite of his; the problem is to draw three interlaced squares without going over the same lines twice, or taking the pen off the paper), which is so thoroughly characteristic of him in its quaint humour:-- "the chestnuts, guildford, _august _ , . my dear isabel,--though i have only been acquainted with you for fifteen minutes, yet, as there is no one else in reading i have known so long, i hope you will not mind my troubling you. before i met you in the gardens yesterday i bought some old books at a shop in reading, which i left to be called for, and had not time to go back for them. i didn't even remark the name of the shop, but i can tell _where_ it was, and if you know the name of the woman who keeps the shop, and would put it into the blank i have left in this note, and direct it to her i should be much obliged ... a friend of mine, called mr. lewis carroll, tells me he means to send you a book. he is a _very_ dear friend of mine. i have known him all my life (we are the same age) and have _never_ left him. of course he was with me in the gardens, not a yard off--even while i was drawing those puzzles for you. i wonder if you saw him? your fifteen-minute friend, c.l. dodgson. have you succeeded in drawing the three squares?" another favourite puzzle was the following--i give it in his own words:-- a is to draw a fictitious map divided into counties. b is to colour it (or rather mark the counties with _names_ of colours) using as few colours as possible. two adjacent counties must have _different_ colours. a's object is to force b to use as _many_ colours as possible. how many can he force b to use? one of his most amusing letters was to a little girl called magdalen, to whom he had given a copy of his "hunting of the snark":-- christ church, _december_ , . my dear magdalen,--i want to explain to you why i did not call yesterday. i was sorry to miss you, but you see i had so many conversations on the way. i tried to explain to the people in the street that i was going to see you, but they wouldn't listen; they said they were in a hurry, which was rude. at last i met a wheelbarrow that i thought would attend to me, but i couldn't make out what was in it. i saw some features at first, then i looked through a telescope, and found it was a countenance; then i looked through a microscope, and found it was a face! i thought it was father like me, so i fetched a large looking-glass to make sure, and then to my great joy i found it was me. we shook hands, and were just beginning to talk, when myself came up and joined us, and we had quite a pleasant conversation. i said, "do you remember when we all met at sandown?" and myself said, "it was very jolly there; there was a child called magdalen," and me said, "i used to like her a little; not much, you know--only a little." then it was time for us to go to the train, and who do you think came to the station to see us off? you would never guess, so i must tell you. they were two very dear friends of mine, who happen to be here just now, and beg to be allowed to sign this letter as your affectionate friends, lewis carroll and c.l. dodgson. another child-friend, miss f. bremer, writes as follows:-- our acquaintance began in a somewhat singular manner. we were playing on the fort at margate, and a gentleman on a seat near asked us if we could make a paper boat, with a seat at each end, and a basket in the middle for fish! we were, of course, enchanted with the idea, and our new friend--after achieving the feat--gave us his card, which we at once carried to our mother. he asked if he might call where we were staying, and then presented my elder sister with a copy of "alice in wonderland," inscribed "from the author." he kindly organised many little excursions for us--chiefly in the pursuit of knowledge. one memorable visit to a light house is still fresh in our memories. it was while calling one day upon mrs. bremer that he scribbled off the following double acrostic on the names of her two daughters-- double acrostic--five letters. two little girls near london dwell, more naughty than i like to tell. . upon the lawn the hoops are seen: the balls are rolling on the green. t ur f . the thames is running deep and wide: and boats are rowing on the tide. r ive r . in winter-time, all in a row, the happy skaters come and go. i c e . "papa!" they cry, "do let us stay!" he does not speak, but says they may. n o d . "there is a land," he says, "my dear, which is too hot to skate, i fear." a fric a at margate also he met miss adelaide paine, who afterwards became one of his greatest favourites. he could not bear to see the healthy pleasures of childhood spoiled by conventional restraint. "one piece of advice given to my parents," writes miss paine, "gave me very great glee, and that was not to make little girls wear gloves at the seaside; they took the advice, and i enjoyed the result." _apropos_ of this i may mention that, when staying at eastbourne, he never went down to the beach without providing himself with a supply of safety-pins. then if he saw any little girl who wanted to wade in the sea, but was afraid of spoiling her frock, he would gravely go up to her and present her with a safety-pin, so that she might fasten up her skirts out of harm's way. tight boots were a great aversion of his, especially for children. one little girl who was staying with him at eastbourne had occasion to buy a new pair of boots. lewis carroll gave instructions to the bootmaker as to how they were to be made, so as to be thoroughly comfortable, with the result that when they came home they were more useful than ornamental, being very nearly as broad as they were long! which shows that even hygienic principles may be pushed too far. the first meeting with miss paine took place in . when lewis carroll returned to christ church he sent her a copy of "the hunting of the snark," with the following acrostic written in the fly-leaf:-- 'a re you deaf, father william?' the young man said, 'd id you hear what i told you just now? e xcuse me for shouting! don't waggle your head l ike a blundering, sleepy old cow! a little maid dwelling in wallington town, i s my friend, so i beg to remark: d o you think she'd be pleased if a book were sent down e ntitled "the hunt of the snark?"' 'p ack it up in brown paper!' the old man cried, 'a nd seal it with olive-and-dove. i command you to do it!' he added with pride, 'n or forget, my good fellow, to send her beside e aster greetings, and give her my love.' this was followed by a letter, dated june , :-- my dear adelaide,--did you try if the letters at the beginnings of the lines about father william would spell anything? sometimes it happens that you can spell out words that way, which is very curious. i wish you could have heard him when he shouted out "pack it up in brown paper!" it quite shook the house. and he threw one of his shoes at his son's head (just to make him attend, you know), but it missed him. he was glad to hear you had got the book safe, but his eyes filled with tears as he said, "i sent _her_ my love, but she never--" he couldn't say any more, his mouth was so full of bones (he was just finishing a roast goose). another letter to miss paine is very characteristic of his quaint humour:-- christ church, oxford, _march_ , . my dear ada,--(isn't that your short name? "adelaide" is all very well, but you see when one's _dreadfully_ busy one hasn't time to write such long words--particularly when it takes one half an hour to remember how to spell it--and even then one has to go and get a dictionary to see if one has spelt it right, and of course the dictionary is in another room, at the top of a high bookcase--where it has been for months and months, and has got all covered with dust--so one has to get a duster first of all, and nearly choke oneself in dusting it--and when one _has_ made out at last which is dictionary and which is dust, even _then_ there's the job of remembering which end of the alphabet "a" comes--for one feels pretty certain it isn't in the _middle_--then one has to go and wash one's hands before turning over the leaves--for they've got so thick with dust one hardly knows them by sight--and, as likely as not, the soap is lost, and the jug is empty, and there's no towel, and one has to spend hours and hours in finding things--and perhaps after all one has to go off to the shop to buy a new cake of soap--so, with all this bother, i hope you won't mind my writing it short and saying, "my dear ada"). you said in your last letter you would like a likeness of me: so here it is, and i hope you will like it--i won't forget to call the next time but one i'm in wallington. your very affectionate friend, lewis carroll. it was quite against mr. dodgson's usual rule to give away photographs of himself; he hated publicity, and the above letter was accompanied by another to mrs. paine, which ran as follows:-- i am very unwilling, usually, to give my photograph, for i don't want people, who have heard of lewis carroll, to be able to recognise him in the street--but i can't refuse ada. will you kindly take care, if any of your ordinary acquaintances (i don't speak of intimate friends) see it, that they are _not_ told anything about the name of "lewis carroll"? he even objected to having his books discussed in his presence; thus he writes to a friend:-- your friend, miss--was very kind and complimentary about my books, but may i confess that i would rather have them ignored? perhaps i am too fanciful, but i have somehow taken a dislike to being talked to about them; and consequently have some trials to bear in society, which otherwise would be no trials at all.... i don't think any of my many little stage-friends have any shyness at all about being talked to of their performances. _they_ thoroughly enjoy the publicity that i shrink from. the child to whom the three following letters were addressed, miss gaynor simpson, was one of lewis carroll's guildford friends. the correct answer to the riddle propounded in the second letter is "copal":-- _december_ , . my dear gaynor,--my name is spelt with a "g," that is to say "_dodgson_." any one who spells it the same as that wretch (i mean of course the chairman of committees in the house of commons) offends me _deeply_, and _for ever!_ it is a thing i _can_ forget, but _never can forgive! _if you do it again, i shall call you "'aynor." could you live happy with such a name? as to dancing, my dear, i _never_ dance, unless i am allowed to do it _in my own peculiar way. _there is no use trying to describe it: it has to be seen to be believed. the last house i tried it in, the floor broke through. but then it was a poor sort of floor--the beams were only six inches thick, hardly worth calling beams at all: stone arches are much more sensible, when any dancing, _of my peculiar kind_, is to be done. did you ever see the rhinoceros, and the hippopotamus, at the zoölogical gardens, trying to dance a minuet together? it is a touching sight. give any message from me to amy that you think will be most likely to surprise her, and, believe me, your affectionate friend, lewis carroll. my dear gaynor,--so you would like to know the answer to that riddle? don't be in a hurry to tell it to amy and frances: triumph over them for a while! my first lends its aid when you plunge into trade. _gain_. who would go into trade if there were no gain in it? my second in jollifications-- _or_ [the french for "gold"--] your jollifications would be _very_ limited if you had no money. my whole, laid on thinnish, imparts a neat finish to pictorial representations. _gaynor_. because she will be an ornament to the shakespeare charades--only she must be "laid on thinnish," that is, _there musn't be too much of her._ yours affectionately, c. l. dodgson. my dear gaynor,--forgive me for having sent you a sham answer to begin with. my first--_sea_. it carries the ships of the merchants. my second--_weed_. that is, a cigar, an article much used in jollifications. my whole--_seaweed_. take a newly painted oil-picture; lay it on its back on the floor, and spread over it, "thinnish," some wet seaweed. you will find you have "finished" that picture. yours affectionately, c.l. dodgson. lewis carroll during the last fifteen years of his life always spent the long vacation at eastbourne; in earlier times, sandown, a pleasant little seaside resort in the isle of wight, was his summer abode. he loved the sea both for its own sake and because of the number of children whom he met at seaside places. here is another "first meeting"; this time it is at sandown, and miss gertrude chataway is the narrator:-- i first met mr. lewis carroll on the sea-shore at sandown in the isle of wight, in the summer of , when i was quite a little child. we had all been taken there for change of air, and next door there was an old gentlemen--to me at any rate he seemed old--who interested me immensely. he would come on to his balcony, which joined ours, sniffing the sea-air with his head thrown back, and would walk right down the steps on to the beach with his chin in air, drinking in the fresh breezes as if he could never have enough. i do not know why this excited such keen curiosity on my part, but i remember well that whenever i heard his footstep i flew out to see him coming, and when one day he spoke to me my joy was complete. thus we made friends, and in a very little while i was as familiar with the interior of his lodgings as with our own. i had the usual child's love for fairy-tales and marvels, and his power of telling stories naturally fascinated me. we used to sit for hours on the wooden steps which led from our garden on to the beach, whilst he told the most lovely tales that could possibly be imagined, often illustrating the exciting situations with a pencil as he went along. one thing that made his stories particularly charming to a child was that he often took his cue from her remarks--a question would set him off on quite a new trail of ideas, so that one felt that one had somehow helped to make the story, and it seemed a personal possession it was the most lovely nonsense conceivable, and i naturally revelled in it. his vivid imagination would fly from one subject to another, and was never tied down in any way by the probabilities of life. to _me_ it was of course all perfect, but it is astonishing that _he_ never seemed either tired or to want other society. i spoke to him once of this since i have been grown up, and he told me it was the greatest pleasure he could have to converse freely with a child, and feel the depths of her mind. he used to write to me and i to him after that summer, and the friendship, thus begun, lasted. his letters were one of the greatest joys of my childhood. i don't think that he ever really understood that we, whom he had known as children, could not always remain such. i stayed with him only a few years ago, at eastbourne, and felt for the time that i was once more a child. he never appeared to realise that i had grown up, except when i reminded him of the fact, and then he only said, "never mind: you will always be a child to me, even when your hair is grey." some of the letters, to which miss chataway refers in these reminiscences, i am enabled, through her kindness, to give below:-- christ church, oxford, _october_ , . my dear gertrude,--i never give birthday _presents_, but you see i _do_ sometimes write a birthday _letter_: so, as i've just arrived here, i am writing this to wish you many and many a happy return of your birthday to-morrow. i will drink your health, if only i can remember, and if you don't mind--but perhaps you object? you see, if i were to sit by you at breakfast, and to drink your tea, you wouldn't like _that_, would you? you would say "boo! hoo! here's mr. dodgson's drunk all my tea, and i haven't got any left!" so i am very much afraid, next time sybil looks for you, she'll find you sitting by the sad sea-wave, and crying "boo! hoo! here's mr. dodgson has drunk my health, and i haven't got any left!" and how it will puzzle dr. maund, when he is sent for to see you! "my dear madam, i'm very sorry to say your little girl has got _no health at all_! i never saw such a thing in my life!" "oh, i can easily explain it!" your mother will say. "you see she would go and make friends with a strange gentleman, and yesterday he drank her health!" "well, mrs. chataway," he will say, "the only way to cure her is to wait till his next birthday, and then for _her_ to drink _his_ health." and then we shall have changed healths. i wonder how you'll like mine! oh, gertrude, i wish you wouldn't talk such nonsense!... your loving friend, lewis carroll. christ church, oxford, _dec_. , . my dear gertrude,--this really will _not_ do, you know, sending one more kiss every time by post: the parcel gets so heavy it is quite expensive. when the postman brought in the last letter, he looked quite grave. "two pounds to pay, sir!" he said. "_extra weight_, sir!" (i think he cheats a little, by the way. he often makes me pay two _pounds_, when i think it should be _pence_). "oh, if you please, mr. postman!" i said, going down gracefully on one knee (i wish you could see me go down on one knee to a postman--it's a very pretty sight), "do excuse me just this once! it's only from a little girl!" "only from a little girl!" he growled. "what are little girls made of?" "sugar and spice," i began to say, "and all that's ni--" but he interrupted me. "no! i don't mean _that_. i mean, what's the good of little girls, when they send such heavy letters?" "well, they're not _much_ good, certainly," i said, rather sadly. "mind you don't get any more such letters," he said, "at least, not from that particular little girl. _i know her well, and she's a regular bad one!"_ that's not true, is it? i don't believe he ever saw you, and you're not a bad one, are you? however, i promised him we would send each other _very_ few more letters--"only two thousand four hundred and seventy, or so," i said. "oh!" he said, "a little number like _that_ doesn't signify. what i meant is, you mustn't send _many_." so you see we must keep count now, and when we get to two thousand four hundred and seventy, we mustn't write any more, unless the postman gives us leave. i sometimes wish i was back on the shore at sandown; don't you? your loving friend, lewis carroll. why is a pig that has lost its tail like a little girl on the sea-shore? because it says, "i should like another tale, please!" christ church, oxford, _july_ , . my dear gertrude,--explain to me how i am to enjoy sandown without _you_. how can i walk on the beach alone? how can i sit all alone on those wooden steps? so you see, as i shan't be able to do without you, you will have to come. if violet comes, i shall tell her to invite you to stay with her, and then i shall come over in the heather-bell and fetch you. if i ever _do_ come over, i see i couldn't go back the same day, so you will have to engage me a bed somewhere in swanage; and if you can't find one, i shall expect _you_ to spend the night on the beach, and give up your room to _me_. guests of course must be thought of before children; and i'm sure in these warm nights the beach will be quite good enough for _you_. if you _did_ feel a little chilly, of course you could go into a bathing-machine, which everybody knows is _very_ comfortable to sleep in--you know they make the floor of soft wood on purpose. i send you seven kisses (to last a week) and remain your loving friend, lewis carroll. christ church, oxford, _october_ , . my dearest gertrude,--you will be sorry, and surprised, and puzzled, to hear what a queer illness i have had ever since you went. i sent for the doctor, and said, "give me some medicine, for i'm tired." he said, "nonsense and stuff! you don't want medicine: go to bed!" i said, "no; it isn't the sort of tiredness that wants bed. i'm tired in the _face_." he looked a little grave, and said, "oh, it's your _nose_ that's tired: a person often talks too much when he thinks he nose a great deal." i said, "no; it isn't the nose. perhaps it's the _hair_." then he looked rather grave, and said, "_now_ i understand: you've been playing too many hairs on the piano-forte." "no, indeed i haven't!" i said, "and it isn't exactly the _hair_: it's more about the nose and chin." then he looked a good deal graver, and said, "have you been walking much on your chin lately?" i said, "no." "well!" he said, "it puzzles me very much. do you think that it's in the lips?" "of course!" i said. "that's exactly what it is!" then he looked very grave indeed, and said, "i think you must have been giving too many kisses." "well," i said, "i did give _one_ kiss to a baby child, a little friend of mine." "think again," he said; "are you sure it was only _one_?" i thought again, and said, "perhaps it was eleven times." then the doctor said, "you must not give her _any_ more till your lips are quite rested again." "but what am i to do?" i said, "because you see, i owe her a hundred and eighty-two more." then he looked so grave that the tears ran down his cheeks, and he said, "you may send them to her in a box." then i remembered a little box that i once bought at dover, and thought i would some day give it to _some_ little girl or other. so i have packed them all in it very carefully. tell me if they come safe, or if any are lost on the way. reading station, _april_ , . my dear gertrude,--as i have to wait here for half an hour, i have been studying bradshaw (most things, you know, ought to be studied: even a trunk is studded with nails), and the result is that it seems i could come, any day next week, to winckfield, so as to arrive there about one; and that, by leaving winckfield again about half-past six, i could reach guildford again for dinner. the next question is, _how far is it from winckfield to rotherwick?_ now do not deceive me, you wretched child! if it is more than a hundred miles, i can't come to see you, and there is no use to talk about it. if it is less, the next question is, _how much less?_ these are serious questions, and you must be as serious as a judge in answering them. there mustn't be a smile in your pen, or a wink in your ink (perhaps you'll say, "there can't be a _wink_ in _ink_: but there _may_ be _ink_ in a _wink_"--but this is trifling; you mustn't make jokes like that when i tell you to be serious) while you write to guildford and answer these two questions. you might as well tell me at the same time whether you are still living at rotherwick--and whether you are at home--and whether you get my letter--and whether you're still a child, or a grown-up person--and whether you're going to the seaside next summer--and anything else (except the alphabet and the multiplication table) that you happen to know. i send you , , kisses, and remain. your loving friend, c. l. dodgson. the chestnuts, guildford, _april_ , . my dear gertrude,--i'm afraid it's "no go"--i've had such a bad cold all the week that i've hardly been out for some days, and i don't think it would be wise to try the expedition this time, and i leave here on tuesday. but after all, what does it signify? perhaps there are ten or twenty gentlemen, all living within a few miles of rotherwick, and any one of them would do just as well! when a little girl is hoping to take a plum off a dish, and finds that she can't have that one, because it's bad or unripe, what does she do? is she sorry, or disappointed? not a bit! she just takes another instead, and grins from one little ear to the other as she puts it to her lips! this is a little fable to do you good; the little girl means _you_--the bad plum means _me_--the other plum means some other friend--and all that about the little girl putting plums to her lips means--well, it means--but you know you can't expect _every bit_ of a fable to mean something! and the little girl grinning means that dear little smile of yours, that just reaches from the tip of one ear to the tip of the other! your loving friend, c.l. dodgson. i send you - / kisses. the next letter is a good example of the dainty little notes lewis carroll used to scribble off on any scrap of paper that lay to his hand:-- chestnuts, guildford, _january_ , . yes, my child, if all be well, i shall hope, and you may fear, that the train reaching hook at two eleven, will contain your loving friend, c.l. dodgson. only a few years ago, illness prevented him from fulfilling his usual custom of spending christmas with his sisters at guildford. this is the allusion in the following letter:-- my dear old friend,--(the friendship is old, though the child is young.) i wish a very happy new year, and many of them, to you and yours; but specially to you, because i know you best and love you most. and i pray god to bless you, dear child, in this bright new year, and many a year to come. ... i write all this from my sofa, where i have been confined a prisoner for six weeks, and as i dreaded the railway journey, my doctor and i agreed that i had better not go to spend christmas with my sisters at guildford. so i had my christmas dinner all alone, in my room here, and (pity me, gertrude!) it wasn't a christmas dinner at all--i suppose the cook thought i should not care for roast beef or plum pudding, so he sent me (he has general orders to send either fish and meat, or meat and pudding) some fried sole and some roast mutton! never, never have i dined before, on christmas day, without _plum pudding_. wasn't it sad? now i think you must be content; this is a longer letter than most will get. love to olive. my clearest memory of her is of a little girl calling out "good-night" from her room, and of your mother taking me in to see her in her bed, and wish her good-night. i have a yet clearer memory (like a dream of fifty years ago) of a little bare-legged girl in a sailor's jersey, who used to run up into my lodgings by the sea. but why should i trouble you with foolish reminiscences of _mine_ that _cannot_ interest you? yours always lovingly, c. l. dodgson. it was a writer in _the national review_ who, after eulogising the talents of lewis carroll, and stating that _he_ would never be forgotten, added the harsh prophecy that "future generations will not waste a single thought upon the rev. c.l. dodgson." if this prediction is destined to be fulfilled, i think my readers will agree with me that it will be solely on account of his extraordinary diffidence about asserting himself. but such an unnatural division of lewis carroll, the author, from the rev. c.l. dodgson, the man, is forced in the extreme. his books are simply the expression of his normal habit of mind, as these letters show. in literature, as in everything else, he was absolutely natural. to refer to such criticisms as this (i am thankful to say they have been very few) is not agreeable; but i feel that it is owing to mr. dodgson to do what i can to vindicate the real unity which underlay both his life and all his writings. of many anecdotes which might be adduced to show the lovable character of the man, the following little story has reached me through one of his child-friends:-- my sister and i [she writes] were spending a day of delightful sightseeing in town with him, on our way to his home at guildford, where we were going to pass a day or two with him. we were both children, and were much interested when he took us into an american shop where the cakes for sale were cooked by a very rapid process before your eyes, and handed to you straight from the cook's hands. as the preparation of them could easily be seen from outside the window, a small crowd of little ragamuffins naturally assembled there, and i well remember his piling up seven of the cakes on one arm, and himself taking them out and doling them round to the seven hungry little youngsters. the simple kindness of his act impressed its charm on his child-friends inside the shop as much as on his little stranger friends outside. it was only to those who had but few personal dealings with him that he seemed stiff and "donnish"; to his more intimate acquaintances, who really understood him, each little eccentricity of manner or of habits was a delightful addition to his charming and interesting personality. that he was, in some respects, eccentric cannot be denied; for instance he hardly ever wore an overcoat, and always wore a tall hat, whatever might be the climatic conditions. at dinner in his rooms small pieces of cardboard took the place of table-mats; they answered the purpose perfectly well, he said, and to buy anything else would be a mere waste of money. on the other hand, when purchasing books for himself, or giving treats to the children he loved, he never seemed to consider expense at all. he very seldom sat down to write, preferring to stand while thus engaged. when making tea for his friends, he used, in order, i suppose, to expedite the process, to walk up and down the room waving the teapot about, and telling meanwhile those delightful anecdotes of which he had an inexhaustible supply. great were his preparations before going a journey; each separate article used to be carefully wrapped up in a piece of paper all to itself, so that his trunks contained nearly as much paper as of the more useful things. the bulk of the luggage was sent on a day or two before by goods train, while he himself followed on the appointed day, laden only with his well-known little black bag, which he always insisted on carrying himself. he had a strong objection to staring colours in dress, his favourite combination being pink and grey. one little girl who came to stay with him was absolutely forbidden to wear a red frock, of a somewhat pronounced hue, while out in his company. at meals he was very abstemious always, while he took nothing in the middle of the day except a glass of wine and a biscuit. under these circumstances it is not very surprising that the healthy appetites of his little friends filled him with wonder, and even with alarm. when he took a certain one of them out with him to a friend's house to dinner, he used to give the host or hostess a gentle warning, to the mixed amazement and indignation of the child, "please be careful, because she eats a good deal too much." another peculiarity, which i have already referred to, was his objection to being invited to dinners or any other social gatherings; he made a rule of never accepting invitations. "because you have invited me, therefore i cannot come," was the usual form of his refusal. i suppose the reason of this was his hatred of the interference with work which engagements of this sort occasion. he had an extreme horror of infection, as will appear from the following illustration. miss isa bowman and her sister, nellie, were at one time staying with him at eastbourne, when news came from home that their youngest sister had caught the scarlet fever. from that day every letter which came from mrs. bowman to the children was held up by mr. dodgson, while the two little girls, standing at the opposite end of the room, had to read it as best they could. mr. dodgson, who was the soul of honour, used always to turn his head to one side during these readings, lest he might inadvertently see some words that were not meant for his eyes. some extracts from letters of his to a child-friend, who prefers to remain anonymous, follow: _november_ , . i have been awfully busy, and i've had to write _heaps_ of letters--wheelbarrows full, almost. and it tires me so that generally i go to bed again the next minute after i get up: and sometimes i go to bed again a minute _before_ i get up! did you ever hear of any one being so tired as _that?_... _november_ , . my dear e--, how often you must find yourself in want of a pin! for instance, you go into a shop, and you say to the man, "i want the largest penny bun you can let me have for a halfpenny." and perhaps the man looks stupid, and doesn't quite understand what you mean. then how convenient it is to have a pin ready to stick into the back of his hand, while you say, "now then! look sharp, stupid!"... and even when you don't happen to want a pin, how often you think to yourself, "they say interlacken is a very pretty place. i wonder what it looks like!" (that is the place that is painted on this pincushion.) when you don't happen to want either a pin or pictures, it may just remind you of a friend who sometimes thinks of his dear little friend e--, and who is just now thinking of the day he met her on the parade, the first time she had been allowed to come out alone to look for him.... _december_ , . my dear e--, though rushing, rapid rivers roar between us (if you refer to the map of england, i think you'll find that to be correct), we still remember each other, and feel a sort of shivery affection for each other.... _march_ , . i _do_ sympathise so heartily with you in what you say about feeling shy with children when you have to entertain them! sometimes they are a real _terror_ to me--especially boys: little girls i can now and then get on with, when they're few enough. they easily become "de trop." but with little _boys_ i'm out of my element altogether. i sent "sylvie and bruno" to an oxford friend, and, in writing his thanks, he added, "i think i must bring my little boy to see you." so i wrote to say "_don't_," or words to that effect: and he wrote again that he could hardly believe his eyes when he got my note. he thought i doted on _all_ children. but i'm _not_ omnivorous!--like a pig. i pick and choose.... you are a lucky girl, and i am rather inclined to envy you, in having the leisure to read dante--_i_ have never read a page of him; yet i am sure the "divina commedia" is one of the grandest books in the world--though i am _not_ sure whether the reading of it would _raise_ one's life and give it a nobler purpose, or simply be a grand poetical treat. that is a question you are beginning to be able to answer: i doubt if _i_ shall ever (at least in this life) have the opportunity of reading it; my life seems to be all torn into little bits among the host of things i want to do! it seems hard to settle what to do _first. one_ piece of work, at any rate, i am clear ought to be done this year, and it will take months of hard work: i mean the second volume of "sylvie and bruno." i fully _mean_, if i have life and health till xmas next, to bring it out then. when one is close on sixty years old, it seems presumptuous to count on years and years of work yet to be done.... she is rather the exception among the hundred or so of child-friends who have brightened my life. usually the child becomes so entirely a different being as she grows into a woman, that our friendship has to change too: and _that_ it usually does by gliding down from a loving intimacy into an acquaintance that merely consists of a smile and a bow when we meet!... _january_ , . ... you are quite correct in saying it is a long time since you have heard from me: in fact, i find that i have not written to you since the th of last november. but what of that? you have access to the daily papers. surely you can find out negatively, that i am all right! go carefully through the list of bankruptcies; then run your eye down the police cases; and, if you fail to find my name anywhere, you can say to your mother in a tone of calm satisfaction, "mr. dodgson is going on _well_." * * * * * chapter xi (the same--_continued_.) books for children--"the lost plum-cake"--"an unexpected guest"--miss isa bowman--interviews--"matilda jane"--miss edith rix--miss kathleen eschwege. lewis carroll's own position as an author did not prevent him from taking a great interest in children's books and their writers. he had very strong ideas on what was or was not suitable in such books, but, when once his somewhat exacting taste was satisfied, he was never tired of recommending a story to his friends. his cousin, mrs. egerton allen, who has herself written several charming tales for young readers, has sent me the following letter which she received from him some years ago:-- dear georgie,--_many_ thanks. the book was at ch. ch. i've done an unusual thing, in thanking for a book, namely, _waited to read it_. i've read it _right through_! in fact, i found it very refreshing, when jaded with my own work at "sylvie and bruno" (coming out at xmas, i hope) to lie down on the sofa and read a chapter of "evie." i like it very much: and am so glad to have helped to bring it out. it would have been a real loss to the children of england, if you had burned the ms., as you once thought of doing.... [illustration: xie kitchin as a chinaman. _from a photograph by lewis carroll_.] the very last words of his that appeared in print took the form of a preface to one of mrs. allen's tales, "the lost plum-cake," (macmillan & co., ). so far as i know, this was the only occasion on which he wrote a preface for another author's book, and his remarks are doubly interesting as being his last service to the children whom he loved. no apology, then, is needed for quoting from them here:-- let me seize this opportunity of saying one earnest word to the mothers in whose hands this little book may chance to come, who are in the habit of taking their children to church with them. however well and reverently those dear little ones have been taught to behave, there is no doubt that so long a period of enforced quietude is a severe tax on their patience. the hymns, perhaps, tax it least: and what a pathetic beauty there is in the sweet fresh voices of the children, and how earnestly they sing! i took a little girl of six to church with me one day: they had told me she could hardly read at all--but she made me find all the places for her! and afterwards i said to her elder sister "what made you say barbara couldn't read? why, i heard her joining in, all through the hymn!" and the little sister gravely replied, "she knows the _tunes_, but not the _words_." well, to return to my subject--children in church. the lessons, and the prayers, are not wholly beyond them: often they can catch little bits that come within the range of their small minds. but the sermons! it goes to one's heart to see, as i so often do, little darlings of five or six years old, forced to sit still through a weary half-hour, with nothing to do, and not one word of the sermon that they can understand. most heartily can i sympathise with the little charity-girl who is said to have written to some friend, "i think, when i grows up, i'll never go to church no more. i think i'se getting sermons enough to last me all my life!" but need it be so? would it be so _very_ irreverent to let your child have a story-book to read during the sermon, to while away that tedious half-hour, and to make church-going a bright and happy memory, instead of rousing the thought, "i'll never go to church no more"? i think not. for my part, i should love to see the experiment tried. i am quite sure it would be a success. my advice would be to _keep_ some books for that special purpose. i would call such books "sunday-treats"--and your little boy or girl would soon learn to look forward with eager hope to that half-hour, once so tedious. if i were the preacher, dealing with some subject too hard for the little ones, i should love to see them all enjoying their picture-books. and if _this_ little book should ever come to be used as a "sunday-treat" for some sweet baby reader, i don't think it could serve a better purpose. lewis carroll. miss m.e. manners was another writer for children whose books pleased him. she gives an amusing account of two visits which he paid to her house in :-- _an unexpected guest._ "mr. dobson wants to see you, miss." i was in the kitchen looking after the dinner, and did not feel that i particularly wished to see anybody. "he wants a vote, or he is an agent for a special kind of tea," thought i. "i don't know him; ask him to send a message." presently the maid returned-- "he says he is mr. dodgson, of oxford." "lewis carroll!" i exclaimed; and somebody else had to superintend the cooking that day. my apologies were soon made and cheerfully accepted. i believe i was unconventional enough to tell the exact truth concerning my occupation, and matters were soon on a friendly footing. indeed i may say at once that the stately college don we have heard so much about never made his appearance during our intercourse with him. he did not talk "alice," of course; authors don't generally _talk_ their books, i imagine; but it was undoubtedly lewis carroll who was present with us. a portrait of ellen terry on the wall had attracted his attention, and one of the first questions he asked was, "do you ever go to the theatre?" i explained that such things were done, occasionally, even among quakers, but they were not considered quite orthodox. "oh, well, then you will not be shocked, and i may venture to produce my photographs." and out into the hall he went, and soon returned with a little black bag containing character portraits of his child-friends, isa and nellie bowman. "isa used to be alice until she grew too big," he said. "nellie was one of the oyster-fairies, and emsie, the tiny one of all, was the dormouse." "when 'alice' was first dramatised," he said, "the poem of the 'walrus and the carpenter' fell rather flat, for people did not know when it was finished, and did not clap in the right place; so i had to write a song for the ghosts of the oysters to sing, which made it all right." [illustration: alice and the dormouse. _from a photograph by elliott & fry_.] he was then on his way to london, to fetch isa to stay with him at eastbourne. she was evidently a great favourite, and had visited him before. of that earlier time he said:-- "when people ask me why i have never married, i tell them i have never met the young lady whom i could endure for a fortnight--but isa and i got on so well together that i said i should keep her a month, the length of the honeymoon, and we didn't get tired of each other." nellie afterwards joined her sister "for a few days," but the days spread to some weeks, for the poor little dormouse developed scarlet fever, and the elder children had to be kept out of harm's way until fear of infection was over. of emsie he had a funny little story to tell. he had taken her to the aquarium, and they had been watching the seals coming up dripping out of the water. with a very pitiful look she turned to him and said, "don't they give them any towels?" [the same little girl commiserated the bear, because it had got no tail.] asked to stay to dinner, he assured us that he never took anything in the middle of the day but a glass of wine and a biscuit; but he would be happy to sit down with us, which he accordingly did and kindly volunteered to carve for us. his offer was gladly accepted, but the appearance of a rather diminutive piece of neck of mutton was somewhat of a puzzle to him. he had evidently never seen such a joint in his life before, and had frankly to confess that he did not know how to set about carving it. directions only made things worse, and he bravely cut it to pieces in entirely the wrong fashion, relating meanwhile the story of a shy young man who had been asked to carve a fowl, the joints of which had been carefully wired together beforehand by his too attentive friends. the task and the story being both finished, our visitor gazed on the mangled remains, and remarked quaintly: "i think it is just as well i don't want anything, for i don't know where i should find it." at least one member of the party felt she could have managed matters better; but that was a point of very little consequence. a day or two after the first call came a note saying that he would be taking isa home before long, and if we would like to see her he would stop on the way again. of course we were only too delighted to have the opportunity, and, though the visit was postponed more than once, it did take place early in august, when he brought both isa and nellie up to town to see a performance of "sweet lavender." it is needless to remark that we took care, this time, to be provided with something at once substantial and carvable. the children were bright, healthy, happy and childlike little maidens, quite devoted to their good friend, whom they called "uncle"; and very interesting it was to see them together. but he did not allow any undue liberties either, as a little incident showed. he had been describing a particular kind of collapsible tumbler, which you put in your pocket and carried with you for use on a railway journey. "there now," he continued, turning to the children, "i forgot to bring it with me after all." "oh goosie," broke in isa; "you've been talking about that tumbler for days, and now you have forgotten it." he pulled himself up, and looked at her steadily with an air of grave reproof. much abashed, she hastily substituted a very subdued "uncle" for the objectionable "goosie," and the matter dropped. the principal anecdote on this occasion was about a dog which had been sent into the sea after sticks. he brought them back very properly for some time, and then there appeared to be a little difficulty, and he returned swimming in a very curious manner. on closer inspection it appeared that he had caught hold of his own tail by mistake, and was bringing it to land in triumph. this was told with the utmost gravity, and though we had been requested beforehand not to mention "lewis carroll's" books, the temptation was too strong. i could not help saying to the child next me-- "that was like the whiting, wasn't it?" our visitor, however, took up the remark, and seemed quite willing to talk about it. "when i wrote that," he said, "i believed that whiting really did have their tails in their mouths, but i have since been told that fishmongers put the tail through the eye, not in the mouth at all." he was not a very good carver, for miss bremer also describes a little difficulty he had--this time with the pastry: "an amusing incident occurred when he was at lunch with us. he was requested to serve some pastry, and, using a knife, as it was evidently rather hard, the knife penetrated the d'oyley beneath--and his consternation was extreme when he saw the slice of linen and lace he served as an addition to the tart!" it was, i think, through her connection with the "alice" play that mr. dodgson first came to know miss isa bowman. her childish friendship for him was one of the joys of his later years, and one of the last letters he wrote was addressed to her. the poem at the beginning of "sylvie and bruno" is an acrostic on her name-- is all our life, then, but a dream, seen faintly in the golden gleam athwart times's dark, resistless stream? bowed to the earth with bitter woe, or laughing at some raree-show, we flutter idly to and fro. man's little day in haste we spend, and, from the merry noontide, send no glance to meet the silent end. every one has heard of lewis carroll's hatred of interviewers; the following letter to miss manners makes one feel that in some cases, at least, his feeling was justifiable:-- if your manchester relatives ever go to the play, tell them they ought to see isa as "cinderella"--she is evidently a success. and she has actually been "interviewed" by one of those dreadful newspapers reporters, and the "interview" is published with her picture! and such rubbish he makes her talk! she tells him that something or other was "tacitly conceded": and that "i love to see a great actress give expression to the wonderful ideas of the immortal master!" (n.b.--i never let her talk like that when she is with _me_!) emsie recovered in time to go to america, with her mother and isa and nellie: and they all enjoyed the trip much; and emsie has a london engagement. only once was an interviewer bold enough to enter lewis carroll's _sanctum_. the story has been told in _the guardian_ (january , ), but will bear repetition:-- not long ago mr. dodgson happened to get into correspondence with a man whom he had never seen, on some question of religious difficulty, and he invited him to come to his rooms and have a talk on the subject. when, therefore, a mr. x-- was announced to him one morning, he advanced to meet him with outstretched hand and smiles of welcome. "come in mr. x--, i have been expecting you." the delighted visitor thought this a promising beginning, and immediately pulled out a note-book and pencil, and proceeded to ask "the usual questions." great was mr. dodgson's disgust! instead of his expected friend, here was another man of the same name, and one of the much-dreaded interviewers, actually sitting in his chair! the mistake was soon explained, and the representative of the press was bowed out as quickly as he had come in. it was while isa and one of her sisters were staying at eastbourne that the visit to america was mooted. mr. dodgson suggested that it would be well for them to grow gradually accustomed to seafaring, and therefore proposed to take them by steamer to hastings. this plan was carried out, and the weather was unspeakably bad--far worse than anything they experienced in their subsequent trip across the atlantic. the two children, who were neither of them very good sailors, experienced sensations that were the reverse of pleasant. mr. dodgson did his best to console them, while he continually repeated, "crossing the atlantic will be much worse than this." however, even this terrible lesson on the horrors of the sea did not act as a deterrent; it was as unsuccessful as the effort of the old lady in one of his stories: "an old lady i once knew tried to check the military ardour of a little boy by showing him a picture of a battlefield, and describing some of its horrors. but the only answer she got was, 'i'll be a soldier. tell it again!'" the bowman children sometimes came over to visit him at oxford, and he used to delight in showing them over the colleges, and pointing out the famous people whom they encountered. on one of these occasions he was walking with maggie, then a mere child, when they met the bishop of oxford, to whom mr. dodgson introduced his little guest. his lordship asked her what she thought of oxford. "i think," said the little actress, with quite a professional _aplomb,_ "it's the best place in the provinces!" at which the bishop was much amused. after the child had returned to town, the bishop sent her a copy of a little book called "golden dust," inscribed "from w. oxon," which considerably mystified her, as she knew nobody of that name! another little stage-friend of lewis carroll's was miss vera beringer, the "little lord fauntleroy," whose acting delighted all theatre-goers eight or nine years ago. once, when she was spending a holiday in the isle of man, he sent her the following lines:-- there was a young lady of station, "i love man" was her sole exclamation; but when men cried, "you flatter," she replied, "oh! no matter, isle of man is the true explanation." many of his friendships with children began in a railway carriage, for he always took about with him a stock of puzzles when he travelled, to amuse any little companions whom chance might send him. once he was in a carriage with a lady and her little daughter, both complete strangers to him. the child was reading "alice in wonderland," and when she put her book down, he began talking to her about it. the mother soon joined in the conversation, of course without the least idea who the stranger was with whom she was talking. "isn't it sad," she said, "about poor mr. lewis carroll? he's gone mad, you know." "indeed," replied mr. dodgson, "i had never heard that." "oh, i assure you it is quite true," the lady answered. "i have it on the best authority." before mr. dodgson parted with her, he obtained her leave to send a present to the little girl, and a few days afterwards she received a copy of "through the looking-glass," inscribed with her name, and "from the author, in memory of a pleasant journey." when he gave books to children, he very often wrote acrostics on their names on the fly-leaf. one of the prettiest was inscribed in a copy of miss yonge's "little lucy's wonderful globe," which he gave to miss ruth dymes:-- r ound the wondrous globe i wander wild, u p and down-hill--age succeeds to youth-- t oiling all in vain to find a child h alf so loving, half so dear as ruth. in another book, given to her sister margaret, he wrote:-- m aidens, if a maid you meet a lways free from pout and pet, r eady smile and temper sweet, g reet my little margaret. a nd if loved by all she be r ightly, not a pampered pet, e asily you then may see 'tis my little margaret. here are two letters to children, the one interesting as a specimen of pure nonsense of the sort which children always like, the other as showing his dislike of being praised. the first was written to miss gertrude atkinson, daughter of an old college friend, but otherwise unknown to lewis carroll except by her photograph:-- my dear gertrude,--so many things have happened since we met last, really i don't know _which_ to begin talking about! for instance, england has been conquered by william the conqueror. we haven't met since _that_ happened, you know. how did you like it? were you frightened? and one more thing has happened: i have got your photograph. thank you very much for it. i like it "awfully." do they let you say "awfully"? or do they say, "no, my dear; little girls mustn't say 'awfully'; they should say 'very much indeed'"? i wonder if you will ever get as far as jersey? if not, how _are_ we to meet? your affectionate friend, c.l. dodgson. from the second letter, to miss florence jackson, i take the following extract:-- i have two reasons for sending you this fable; one is, that in a letter you wrote me you said something about my being "clever"; and the other is that, when you wrote again you said it again! and _each_ time i thought, "really, i _must_ write and ask her _not_ to say such things; it is not wholesome reading for me." the fable is this. the cold, frosty, bracing air is the treatment one gets from the world generally--such as contempt, or blame, or neglect; all those are very wholesome. and the hot dry air, that you breathe when you rush to the fire, is the praise that one gets from one's young, happy, rosy, i may even say _florid_ friends! and that's very bad for me, and gives pride--fever, and conceit--cough, and such-like diseases. now i'm sure you don't want me to be laid up with all these diseases; so please don't praise me _any_ more! the verses to "matilda jane" certainly deserve a place in this chapter. to make their meaning clear, i must state that lewis carroll wrote them for a little cousin of his, and that matilda jane was the somewhat prosaic name of her doll. the poem expresses finely the blind, unreasoning devotion which the infant mind professes for inanimate objects:-- matilda jane, you never look at any toy or picture-book; i show you pretty things in vain, you must be blind, matilda jane! i ask you riddles, tell you tales, but all our conversation fails; you never answer me again, i fear you're dumb, matilda jane! matilda, darling, when i call you never seem to hear at all; i shout with all my might and main, but you're _so_ deaf, matilda jane! matilda jane, you needn't mind, for though you're deaf, and dumb, and blind, there's some one loves you, it is plain, and that is _me_, matilda jane! in an earlier chapter i gave some of mr. dodgson's letters to miss edith rix; the two which follow, being largely about children, seem more appropriate here:-- my dear edith,--would you tell your mother i was aghast at seeing the address of her letter to me: and i would much prefer "rev. c.l. dodgson, ch. ch., oxford." when a letter comes addressed "lewis carroll, ch. ch.," it either goes to the dead letter office, or it impresses on the minds of all letter-carriers, &c., through whose hands it goes, the very fact i least want them to know. please offer to your sister all the necessary apologies for the liberty i have taken with her name. my only excuse is, that i know no other; and how _am_ i to guess what the full name is? it _may_ be carlotta, or zealot, or ballot, or lotus-blossom (a very pretty name), or even charlotte. never have i sent anything to a young lady of whom i have a more shadowy idea. name, an enigma; age, somewhere between and (you've no idea how bewildering it is, alternately picturing her as a little toddling thing of , and a tall girl of !); disposition--well, i _have_ a fragment of information on _that_ question--your mother says, as to my coming, "it must be when lottie is at home, or she would never forgive us." still, i _cannot_ consider the mere fact that she is of an unforgiving disposition as a complete view of her character. i feel sure she has some other qualities besides. believe me, yrs affectionately, c.l. dodgson. my dear child,--it seems quite within the bounds of possibility, if we go on long in this style, that our correspondence may at last assume a really friendly tone. i don't of course say it will actually do so--that would be too bold a prophecy, but only that it may tend to shape itself in that direction. your remark, that slippers for elephants _could_ be made, only they would not be slippers, but boots, convinces me that there is a branch of your family in _ireland_. who are (oh dear, oh dear, i am going distracted! there's a lady in the opposite house who simply sings _all_ day. all her songs are wails, and their tunes, such as they have, are much the same. she has one strong note in her voice, and she knows it! i _think_ it's "a natural," but i haven't much ear. and when she gets to that note, she howls!) they? the o'rixes, i suppose? about your uninteresting neighbours, i sympathise with you much; but oh, i wish i had you here, that i might teach you _not_ to say "it is difficult to visit one's district regularly, like every one else does!" and now i come to the most interesting part of your letter-- may you treat me as a perfect friend, and write anything you like to me, and ask my advice? why, _of course_ you may, my child! what else am i good for? but oh, my dear child-friend, you cannot guess how such words sound to _me_! that any one should look up to _me_, or think of asking _my_ advice--well, it makes one feel humble, i think, rather than proud--humble to remember, while others think so well of me, what i really _am_, in myself. "thou, that teachest another, teachest thou not thyself?" well, i won't talk about myself, it is not a healthy topic. perhaps it may be true of _any_ two people, that, if one could see the other through and through, love would perish. i don't know. anyhow, i like to _have_ the love of my child-friends, tho' i know i don't deserve it. please write as freely as _ever_ you like. i went up to town and fetched phoebe down here on friday in last week; and we spent _most_ of saturday upon the beach--phoebe wading and digging, and "as happy as a bird upon the wing" (to quote the song she sang when first i saw her). tuesday evening brought a telegram to say she was wanted at the theatre next morning. so, instead of going to bed, phoebe packed her things, and we left by the last train, reaching her home by a quarter to a.m. however, even four days of sea-air, and a new kind of happiness, did her good, i think. i am rather lonely now she is gone. she is a very sweet child, and a thoughtful child, too. it was very touching to see (we had a little bible-reading every day: i tried to remember that my little friend had a soul to be cared for, as well as a body) the far-away look in her eyes, when we talked of god and of heaven--as if her angel, who beholds his face continually, were whispering to her. of course, there isn't _much_ companionship possible, after all, between an old man's mind and a little child's, but what there is is sweet--and wholesome, i think. three letters of his to a child-friend, miss kathleen eschwege, now mrs. round, illustrate one of those friendships which endure: the sort of friendship that he always longed for, and so often failed to secure:-- [illustrations and: facsimile of a "looking-glass letter" from lewis carroll to miss edith ball.] ch. ch., oxford, _october_ , . my dear kathleen,--i was really pleased to get your letter, as i had quite supposed i should never see or hear of you again. you see i knew only your christian name--not the ghost of a surname, or the shadow of an address--and i was not prepared to spend my little all in advertisements--"if the young lady, who was travelling on the g.w. railway, &c." --or to devote the remainder of my life to going about repeating "kathleen," like that young woman who came from some foreign land to look for her lover, but only knew that he was called "edward" (or "richard" was it? i dare say you know history better than i do) and that he lived in england; so that naturally it took her some time to find him. all i knew was that _you_ could, if you chose, write to me through macmillan: but it is three months since we met, so i was _not_ expecting it, and it was a pleasant surprise. well, so i hope i may now count you as one of my child-friends. i am fond of children (except boys), and have more child-friends than i could possibly count on my fingers, even if i were a centipede (by the way, _have_ they fingers? i'm afraid they're only feet, but, of course, they use them for the same purpose, and that is why no other insects, _except centipedes_, ever succeed in doing _long multiplication_), and i have several not so very far from you--one at beckenham, two at balham, two at herne hill, one at peckham--so there is every chance of my being somewhere near you _before the year_ . if so, may i call? i am _very_ sorry your neck is no better, and i wish they would take you to margate: margate air will make _any_ body well of _any_ thing. it seems you have already got my two books about "alice." have you also got "the hunting of the snark"? if not, i should be very glad to send you one. the pictures (by mr. holiday) are pretty: and you needn't read the verses unless you like. how do you pronounce your surname? "esk-weej"? or how? is it a german name? if you can do "doublets," with how many links do you turn kath into leen? with kind remembrances to your mother, i am your affectionate friend, charles l. dodgson (_alias_ "lewis carroll"). ch. ch., oxford, _january_ , . my dear kathleen,--some months ago i heard, from my cousin, may wilcox, that you were engaged to be married. and, ever since, i have cherished the intention of writing to offer my congratulations. some might say, "why not write _at once?"_ to such unreasoning creatures, the obvious reply is, "when you have bottled some peculiarly fine port, do you usually begin to drink it _at once?"_ is not that a beautiful simile? of course, i need not remark that my congratulations are like fine old port--only finer, and _older!_ accept, my dear old friend, my _heartiest_ wishes for happiness, of all sorts and sizes, for yourself, and for him whom you have chosen as your other self. and may you love one another with a love second only to your love for god--a love that will last through bright days and dark days, in sickness and in health, through life and through death. a few years ago i went, in the course of about three months, to the weddings of three of my old child-friends. but weddings are not very exhilarating scenes for a miserable old bachelor; and i think you'll have to excuse me from attending _yours_. however, i have so far concerned myself in it that i actually _dreamed_ about it a few nights ago! i dreamed that you had had a photograph done of the wedding-party, and had sent me a copy of it. at one side stood a group of ladies, among whom i made out the faces of dolly and ninty; and in the foreground, seated in a boat, were two people, a gentleman and a lady i _think_ (could they have been the bridegroom and the bride?) engaged in the natural and usual occupation for a riverside picnic--pulling a christmas cracker! i have no idea what put such an idea into my head. _i_ never saw crackers used in such a scene! i hope your mother goes on well. with kindest regards to her and your father, and love to your sisters--and to yourself too, if he doesn't object!--i am, yours affectionately, c.l. dodgson. p.s.--i never give wedding-presents; so please regard the enclosed as an _unwedding_ present. ch. ch., oxford, _december_ , . my dear kathleen,--many thanks for the photo of yourself and your _fiancé_, which duly reached me january , . also for a wedding-card, which reached me august , . neither of these favours, i fear, was ever acknowledged. our only communication since, has been, that on december , , i sent you a biscuit-box adorned with "looking-glass" pictures. this _you_ never acknowledged; so i was properly served for my negligence. i hope your little daughter, of whose arrival mrs. eschwege told me in december, , has been behaving well? how quickly the years slip by! it seems only yesterday that i met, on the railway, a little girl who was taking a sketch of oxford! your affectionate old friend, c.l. dodgson. the following verses were inscribed in a copy of "alice's adventures," presented to the three miss drurys in august, :-- _to three puzzled little girls, from the author._ three little maidens weary of the rail, three pairs of little ears listening to a tale, three little hands held out in readiness, for three little puzzles very hard to guess. three pairs of little eyes, open wonder-wide, at three little scissors lying side by side. three little mouths that thanked an unknown friend, for one little book, he undertook to send. though whether they'll remember a friend, or book, or day-- in three little weeks is very hard to say. he took the same three children to german reed's entertainment, where the triple bill consisted of "happy arcadia," "all abroad," and "very catching." a few days afterwards he sent them "phantasmagoria," with a little poem on the fly-leaf to remind them of their treat:-- three little maids, one winter day, while others went to feed, to sing, to laugh, to dance, to play, more wisely went to--reed. others, when lesson-time's begun, go, half inclined to cry, some in a walk, some in a run; but _these_ went in a--fly. i give to other little maids a smile, a kiss, a look, presents whose memory quickly fades, i give to these--a book. _happy arcadia _may blind, while _all abroad,_ their eyes; at home, this book (i trust) they'll find a _very catching_ prize. the next three letters were addressed to two of mr. arthur hughes' children. they are good examples of the wild and delightful nonsense with which lewis carroll used to amuse his little friends:-- my dear agnes,--you lazy thing! what? i'm to divide the kisses myself, am i? indeed i won't take the trouble to do anything of the sort! but i'll tell _you_ how to do it. first, you must take _four_ of the kisses, and--and that reminds me of a very curious thing that happened to me at half-past four yesterday. three visitors came knocking at my door, begging me to let them in. and when i opened the door, who do you think they were? you'll never guess. why, they were three cats! wasn't it curious? however, they all looked so cross and disagreeable that i took up the first thing i could lay my hand on (which happened to be the rolling-pin) and knocked them all down as flat as pan-cakes! "if _you_ come knocking at _my_ door," i said, "_i_ shall come knocking at _your_ heads." "that was fair, wasn't it?" yours affectionately, lewis carroll. my dear agnes,--about the cats, you know. of course i didn't leave them lying flat on the ground like dried flowers: no, i picked them up, and i was as kind as i could be to them. i lent them the portfolio for a bed--they wouldn't have been comfortable in a real bed, you know: they were too thin--but they were _quite_ happy between the sheets of blotting-paper--and each of them had a pen-wiper for a pillow. well, then i went to bed: but first i lent them the three dinner-bells, to ring if they wanted anything in the night. you know i have _three_ dinner-bells--the first (which is the largest) is rung when dinner is _nearly_ ready; the second (which is rather larger) is rung when it is quite ready; and the third (which is as large as the other two put together) is rung all the time i am at dinner. well, i told them they might ring if they happened to want anything--and, as they rang _all_ the bells _all_ night, i suppose they did want something or other, only i was too sleepy to attend to them. in the morning i gave them some rat-tail jelly and buttered mice for breakfast, and they were as discontented as they could be. they wanted some boiled pelican, but of course i knew it wouldn't be good _for_ them. so all i said was "go to number two, finborough road, and ask for agnes hughes, and if it's _really_ good for you, she'll give you some." then i shook hands with them all, and wished them all goodbye, and drove them up the chimney. they seemed very sorry to go, and they took the bells and the portfolio with them. i didn't find this out till after they had gone, and then i was sorry too, and wished for them back again. what do i mean by "them"? never mind. how are arthur, and amy, and emily? do they still go up and down finborough road, and teach the cats to be kind to mice? i'm _very_ fond of all the cats in finborough road. give them my love. who do i mean by "them"? never mind. your affectionate friend, lewis carroll. [illustration: arthur hughes and his daughter agnes. _from a photograph by lewis carroll._] my dear amy,--how are you getting on, i wonder, with guessing those puzzles from "wonderland"? if you think you've found out any of the answers, you may send them to me; and if they're wrong, i won't tell you they're right! you asked me after those three cats. ah! the dear creatures! do you know, ever since that night they first came, they have _never left me?_ isn't it kind of them? tell agnes this. she will be interested to hear it. and they _are_ so kind and thoughtful! do you know, when i had gone out for a walk the other day, they got _all_ my books out of the bookcase, and opened them on the floor, to be ready for me to read. they opened them all at page , because they thought that would be a nice useful page to begin at. it was rather unfortunate, though: because they took my bottle of gum, and tried to gum pictures upon the ceiling (which they thought would please me), and by accident they spilt a quantity of it all over the books. so when they were shut up and put by, the leaves all stuck together, and i can never read page again in any of them! however, they meant it very kindly, so i wasn't angry. i gave them each a spoonful of ink as a treat; but they were ungrateful for that, and made dreadful faces. but, of course, as it was given them as a treat, they had to drink it. one of them has turned black since: it was a white cat to begin with. give my love to any children you happen to meet. also i send two kisses and a half, for you to divide with agnes, emily, and godfrey. mind you divide them fairly. yours affectionately, c.l. dodgson. the intelligent reader will make a discovery about the first of the two following letters, which miss maggie cunningham, the "child-friend" to whom both were addressed, perhaps did not hit upon at once. mr. dodgson wrote these two letters in :-- dear maggie,--i found that _the friend, _that the little girl asked me to write to, lived at ripon, and not at land's end--a nice sort of place to invite to! it looked rather suspicious to me--and soon after, by dint of incessant inquiries, i found out that _she_ was called maggie, and lived in a crescent! of course i declared, "after that" (the language i used doesn't matter), "i will _not_ address her, that's flat! so do not expect me to flatter." well, i hope you will soon see your beloved pa come back--for consider, should you be quite content with only jack? just suppose they made a blunder! (such things happen now and then.) really, now, i shouldn't wonder if your "john" came home again, and your father stayed at school! a most awkward thing, no doubt. how would you receive him? you'll say, perhaps, "you'd turn him out." that would answer well, so far as concerns the boy, you know--but consider your papa, learning lessons in a row of great inky schoolboys! this (though unlikely) might occur: "haly" would be grieved to miss him (don't mention it to _her_). no _carte_ has yet been done of me, that does real justice to my _smile_; and so i hardly like, you see, to send you one. however, i'll consider if i will or not--meanwhile, i send a little thing to give you an idea of what i look like when i'm lecturing. the merest sketch, you will allow--yet still i think there's something grand in the expression of the brow and in the action of the hand. have you read my fairy tale in _aunt judy's magazine?_ if you have you will not fail to discover what i mean when i say "bruno yesterday came to remind me that _he_ was my god-son!"--on the ground that i "gave him a name"! your affectionate friend, c.l. dodgson. p.s.--i would send, if i were not too shy, the same message to "haly" that she (though i do not deserve it, not i!) has sent through her sister to me. my best love to yourself--to your mother my kindest regards--to your small, fat, impertinent, ignorant brother my hatred. i think that is all. [illustration: what i look like when i'm lecturing. _from a drawing, by lewis carroll._] my dear maggie,--i am a very bad correspondent, i fear, but i hope you won't leave off writing to me on that account. i got the little book safe, and will do my best about putting my name in, if i can only manage to remember what day my birthday is--but one forgets these things so easily. somebody told me (a little bird, i suppose) that you had been having better photographs done of yourselves. if so, i hope you will let me buy copies. fanny will pay you for them. but, oh maggie, how _can_ you ask for a better one of me than the one i sent! it is one of the best ever done! such grace, such dignity, such benevolence, such--as a great secret (please don't repeat it) the _queen_ sent to ask for a copy of it, but as it is against my rule to give in such a case, i was obliged to answer-- "mr. dodgson presents his compliments to her majesty, and regrets to say that his rule is never to give his photograph except to _young_ ladies." i am told she was annoyed about it, and said, "i'm not so old as all that comes to!" and one doesn't like to annoy queens; but really i couldn't help it, you know. i will conclude this chapter with some reminiscences of lewis carroll, which have been kindly sent me by an old child-friend of his, mrs. maitland, daughter of the late rev. e.a. litton, rector of naunton, and formerly fellow of oriel college and vice-principal of saint edmund's hall:-- to my mind oxford will be never quite the same again now that so many of the dear old friends of one's childhood have "gone over to the great majority." often, in the twilight, when the flickering firelight danced on the old wainscotted wall, have we--father and i--chatted over the old oxford days and friends, and the merry times we all had together in long wall street. i was a nervous, thin, remarkably ugly child then, and for some years i was left almost entirely to the care of mary pearson, my own particular attendant. i first remember mr. dodgson when i was about seven years old, and from that time until we went to live in gloucestershire he was one of my most delightful friends. i shall never forget how mr. dodgson and i sat once under a dear old tree in the botanical gardens, and how he told me, for the first time, hans andersen's story of the "ugly duckling." i cannot explain the charm of mr. dodgson's way of telling stories; as he spoke, the characters seemed to be real flesh and blood. this particular story made a great impression upon me, and interested me greatly, as i was very sensitive about my ugly little self. i remember his impressing upon me that it was better to be good and truthful and to try not to think of oneself than to be a pretty, selfish child, spoiled and disagreeable; and, after telling me this story, he gave me the name of "ducky." "never mind, little ducky," he used often to say, "perhaps some day you will turn out a swan." i always attribute my love for animals to the teaching of mr. dodgson: his stories about them, his knowledge of their lives and histories, his enthusiasm about birds and butterflies enlivened many a dull hour. the monkeys in the botanical gardens were our special pets, and when we fed them with nuts and biscuits he seemed to enjoy the fun as much as i did. every day my nurse and i used to take a walk in christ church meadows, and often we would sit down on the soft grass, with the dear old broad walk quite close, and, when we raised our eyes, merton college, with its walls covered with virginian creeper. and how delighted we used to be to see the well-known figure in cap and gown coming, so swiftly, with his kind smile ready to welcome the "ugly duckling." i knew, as he sat beside me, that a book of fairy tales was hidden in his pocket, or that he would have some new game or puzzle to show me--and he would gravely accept a tiny daisy-bouquet for his coat with as much courtesy as if it had been the finest hot-house _boutonnière_. two or three times i went fishing with him from the bank near the old mill, opposite addison's walk, and he quite entered into my happiness when a small fish came wriggling up at the end of my bent pin, just ready for the dinner of the little white kitten "lily," which he had given me. my hair was a great trouble to me, as a child, for it would tangle, and mary was not too patient with me, as i twisted about while she was trying to dress it. one day i received a long blue envelope addressed to myself, which contained a story-letter, full of drawings, from mr. dodgson. the first picture was of a little girl--with her hat off and her tumbled hair very much in evidence--asleep on a rustic bench under a big tree by the riverside, and two birds, holding what was evidently a very important conversation, above in the branches, their heads on one side, eyeing the sleeping child. then there was a picture of the birds flying up to the child with twigs and straw in their beaks, preparing to build their nest in her hair. next came the awakening, with the nest completed, and the mother-bird sitting on it; while the father-bird flew round the frightened child. and then, lastly, hundreds of birds--the air thick with them--the child fleeing, small boys with tin trumpets raised to their lips to add to the confusion, and mary, armed with a basket of brushes and combs, bringing up the rear! after this, whenever i was restive while my hair was being arranged, mary would show me the picture of the child with the nest on her head, and i at once became "as quiet as a lamb." i had a daily governess, a dear old soul, who used to come every morning to teach me. i disliked particularly the large-lettered copies which she used to set me; and as i confided this to mr. dodgson, he came and gave me some copies himself. the only ones which i can remember were "patience and water-gruel cure gout" (i always wondered what "gout" might be) and "little girls should be seen and not heard" (which i thought unkind). these were written many times over, and i had to present the pages to him, without one blot or smudge, at the end of the week. one of the fellows of magdalen college at that time was a mr. saul, a friend of my father's and of mr. dodgson, and a great lover of music--his rooms were full of musical instruments of every sort. mr. dodgson and father and i all went one afternoon to pay him a visit. at that time he was much interested in the big drum, and we found him when we arrived in full practice, with his music-book open before him. he made us all join in the concert. father undertook the 'cello, and mr. dodgson hunted up a comb and some paper, and, amidst much fun and laughter, the walls echoed with the finished roll, or shake, of the big drum--a roll that was mr. saul's delight. my father died on august , , and mr. dodgson on january , . and we, who are left behind in this cold, weary world can only hope we may some day meet them again. till then, oh! father, and my dear old childhood's friend, _requiescalis in pace!_ * * * * * bibliography "notes on the first two books of euclid." oxford: parker. vo. d "photographs." (?) (printed for private circulation; a list of negatives taken by the rev. c. l. dodgson.) pp. , to "a syllabus of plane algebraical geometry," systematically arranged, with formal definitions, postulates, and axioms. by charles lutwidge dodgson. part i. containing points, right lines, rectilinear figures, pencils and circles. oxford: parker. pp. xvi + , vo. cloth, paper label. s "rules for court circular." (a new game, invented by the rev. c.l. dodgson.) pp. . (reprinted in ). "the formulÃ� of plane trigonometry," printed with symbols (instead of words) to express the "goniometrical ratios." by charles lutwidge dodgson. oxford: parker. pp. , to. stitched, s. "notes on the first part of algebra." oxford: parker. vo. d "index to 'in memoriam.'" [suggested and edited by the rev. c.l. dodgson; much of the actual work of compilation was done by his sisters] london: moxon. "the enunciations of euclid, books i. and ii." oxford: printed at the university press. "general list of (mathematical) subjects, and cycle for working examples." oxford: printed at the university press. "croquÃ�t castles." (a new game invented by the rev. c.l. dodgson). london(?) pp. . (reprinted, with additions and alterations, in at oxford.) "the new examination statute." (a letter to the vice-chancellor.) pp. , to. oxford. "a guide to the mathematical student in reading, reviewing, and working examples." by charles lutwidge dodgson. part i. pure mathematics. oxford: parker. two leaves and pp. , vo. stitched, s. "the dynamics of a parti-cle, with an excursus on the new method of evaluation as applied to pi." oxford: vincent. pp. , vo. (three editions). "alice's adventures in wonderland." by lewis carroll, with forty-two illustrations by john tenniel. london: macmillan. pp. , cr. vo. cloth, gilt edges. s. the st edition (recalled) was printed in oxford, and is very rare; all subsequent editions ( onwards) by richard clay in london. now in its th thousand. [people's edition, price s. d.; first published in . now in its th thousand.] "condensation of determinants," being a new and brief method for computing their arithmetical values. by the rev. c.l. dodgson. from "the proceedings of the royal society, no. , ." london: taylor and francis. pp. , vo. "an elementary treatise on determinants." london: macmillan. (printed in oxford.) pp. viii + , to. cloth. s. d. "the fifth book of euclid treated algebraically, so far as it relates to commensurable magnitudes." with notes. by charles l. dodgson. oxford and london: parker. two leaves and pp. , vo. in wrapper, s. d. "algebraical formulÃ� for responsions." oxford: printed at the university press. "the telegraph cipher." (?) (invented, in , by the rev. c.l. dodgson.) "phantasmagoria and other poems." by lewis carroll. london: macmillan. (printed in oxford.) pp. viii + , small vo. cloth, gilt edges. "aventures d'alice au pays de merveilles." par lewis carroll, ouvrage illustré de vignettes par john tenniel. traduit de l'anglais, par h. bué. london: macmillan. pp. , cr. vo. cloth, gilt edges. s. (now in its nd thousand.) "alice's abenteuer im wunderland." von lewis carroll, mit zweiundvierzig illustrationen von john tenniel. uebersetzt von antonie zimmermann. london: macmillan. pp. , cr. vo. cloth, gilt edges. s. "gazette extraordinary." oxford: printed at the university press. "algebraical formulÃ� and rules." oxford: printed at the university press. "arithmetical formulÃ� and rules." oxford: printed at the university press. "to all child readers of 'alice's adventures in wonderland.'" pp. "through the looking-glass and what alice found there." by lewis carroll. with fifty illustrations by john tenniel. london: macmillan. pp. ., cr. vo. cloth, gilt edges. s. now in its st thousand [people's edition. price s. d. first published in . now in its th thousand.] "le avventure d'alice nel paese della meraviglie." per lewis carroll. tradotte dall'inglese da t. pietrocòla-rossetti. con vignette di giovanni tenniel. london: macmillan. pp. , cr. vo. cloth, gilt edges. s. circular to hospitals offering copies of the two "alice" books. london: macmillan. "symbols, &c., to be used in euclid, books i. and ii." oxford: printed at the university press. "number of propositions in euclid." oxford: printed at the university press. "the new belfry of christ church, oxford." a monograph. by d.c.l. oxford: parker. pp. + , cr. vo. in wrapper. d. (five editions.) "enunciations, euclid, i.-vi." oxford: printed at the university press. "objections, submitted to the governing body of christ church, oxford, against certain proposed alterations in the great quadrangle." oxford: printed at the university press. pp. , to. [printed for private circulation.] "the vision of the three t's." a threnody. by the author of "the new belfry." oxford. parker. pp. + , vo. in wrapper, d. (three editions.) "a discussion of the various modes of procedure in conducting elections." oxford: printed at the university press. "euclid, book v. proved algebraically," so far as it relates to commensurable magnitudes. to which is prefixed a summary of all the necessary algebraical operations, arranged in order of difficulty. by charles l. dodgson. oxford: parker. pp. viii + , vo. cloth. s. d. "suggestions as to the best method of taking votes, where more than two issues are to be voted on." oxford: hall and stacy. pp. , vo. "the blank cheque." a fable. by the author of "the new belfry," and "the vision of the three t's" oxford: parker. pp. + , cr. vo. in wrapper. d. "preliminary algebra, and euclid book v." oxford: printed at the university press. "the dynamics of a parti-cle." oxford: parker. pp. , cr. vo. in wrapper. d. "the new method of evaluation as applied to pi." oxford: parker. pp. , cr. vo. in wrapper. d. "facts, figures, and fancies," relating to the elections to the hebdomadal council, the offer of the clarendon trustees, and the proposal to convert the parks into cricket-grounds. oxford: parker. pp. + , cr. vo. in wrapper. d. "notes by an oxford chiel." oxford: parker. cr. vo. cloth, gilt edges. [this book consists of the following six pamphlets bound together--"the new method of evaluation," "the dynamics of a particle," "facts, figures, and fancies," "the new belfry," "the vision of the three t's," and "the blank cheque."] "examples in arithmetic." oxford: printed at the university press. "euclid, books i. and ii." edited by charles l. dodgson. oxford: parker. diagram, title, preface, and pp. , cr. vo. cloth. [the book was circulated privately among mathematical friends for hints. "not yet published" was printed above title.] "the professorship of comparative philology." (three leaflets.) oxford: printed at the university press. "a method of taking votes of more than two issues." oxford: printed at the university press. pp. , cr. vo. [a note on the title-page runs as follows: "as i hope to investigate this subject further, and to publish a more complete pamphlet on the subject, i shall feel greatly obliged if you will enter in this copy any remarks that occur to you, and return it to me any time before--"] letter and questions to hospitals. oxford: printed at the university press. "an easter greeting." [reprinted in london, by macmillan & co., in .] "fame's penny trumpet." not published. oxford: baxter. pp. , to. [afterwards published in "rhyme? and reason?"] "the hunting of the snark." an agony, in eight fits. by lewis carroll. with nine illustrations by henry holiday. london: macmillan. pp. xi + , vo. cloth, gilt edges. s.. d. "the responsions of hilary term, ." (a letter to the vice-chancellor.) oxford: printed at the university press. "a charade." (written with a cyclostyle.) pp. . "word-links." (a game, afterwards called "doublets," invented by the rev. c.l. dodgson.) oxford: printed at the university press. pp. , vo.[there is also a form written with a cyclostyle.] "doublets." a word-puzzle. by lewis carroll. london: macmillan. pp. , vo. cloth. s. ( nd edition, .) "euclid and his modern rivals." london: macmillan. vo. cloth. s. ( nd edition, . pp. xxxi + .) "doublets." a word-puzzle. by lewis carroll. oxford: printed at the university press. pp. . vo. [this puzzle appeared in vanity fair, april , .] "letter from mabel to emily." to illustrate common errors in letter-writing. (written with a cyclostyle.) "lize's avonturen in het wonderland." (?) naar het engelsch. [a dutch version of "alice in wonderland."] nijmegen. to. "on catching cold." (a pamphlet, consisting of extracts from two books by dr. inman.) oxford: printed at the university press. "jabberwocky." (lewis carroll's poem, with a.a. vansittart's latin rendering.) oxford: printed at the university press. notice re concordance to "in memoriam." oxford: printed at the university press. "lanrick." a game for two players. oxford: printed at the university press. a circular about the "school of dramatic art." oxford: printed at the university press. "an analysis of the responsions-lists from michaelmas, , to michaelmas, ." oxford: printed at the university press. circular asking for suggestions for a girls' edition of shakespeare. oxford: printed at the university press. [two different forms, one pp. , the other pp. .] "euclid, books i. and ii." london: macmillan. printed in oxford. pp. xi + . vo. cloth. s. [seven editions were subsequently published.] "dreamland." a song. words by lewis carroll; music by rev. c. e. hutchinson. oxford: printed at the university press. "mischmasch." (a game invented by the rev. c. l. dodgson.) oxford: printed at the university press. two editions. "rhyme? and reason?" by lewis carroll. with sixty-five illustrations by arthur b. frost, and nine by henry holiday. london: macmillan. pp. xii + , cr. vo. cloth, s. (now in its th thousand.) [this book is a reprint, with a few additions, of "the hunting of the snark," and of the comic portions of "phantasmagoria and other poems."] "lawn tennis tournaments: the true method of assigning prizes, with a proof of the fallacy of the present method." london: macmillan. printed in oxford. vo. "rules for reckoning postage." oxford: baxter. "twelve months in a curatorship." by one who has tried it. oxford: printed by e. baxter. pp. , vo supplement to ditto. oxford: printed by e. baxter. pp. , vo postscript to ditto. oxford: printed by e. baxter. pp. , vo. "christmas greetings." london: macmillan. "the profits of authorship." by lewis carroll. london: macmillan. vo. d. "the principles of parliamentary representation." london: harrison. pp. , vo. (reprinted in .) supplement to ditto. oxford: printed by e. baxter. pp. , vo. two editions. postscript to supplement to ditto. oxford: printed by e. baxter. pp. , vo. two editions. supplement to first edition of "euclid and his modern rivals." london: macmillan. vo. s "a tangled tale." by lewis carroll. with six illustrations by arthur b. frost. london: macmillan. printed in oxford. pp. , cr. vo. cloth, gilt edges. s. d. (now in its th thousand.) [first appeared in monthly packet, april, -november, . there are also separate reprints of each "knot," and of the answers to "knots" i. and ii.] "proposed procuratorial cycle." oxford: printed by e. baxter. pp. , to. "the procuratorial cycle. further remarks." oxford: printed by e. baxter. pp. , to. "suggestions as to the election of proctors." oxford: printed by e. baxter. pp. , to. (reprinted, with additions, in ) "alice's adventures under ground." by lewis carroll. with thirty-seven illustrations by the author. london: macmillan. pp. viii + , cr. vo. cloth, gilt edges. s. (now in its th thousand.) [this book is a facsimile of the original manuscript story, afterwards developed into "alice in wonderland."] "three years in a curatorship." by one whom it has tried. oxford: printed by e. baxter. pp. , cr. vo. "remarks on the report of the finance committee." oxford: printed by e. baxter. pp. , cr. vo. "remarks on mr. sampson's proposal." oxford: printed by e. baxter. pp. , cr. vo. "observations on mr. sampson's proposal." oxford: printed by e. baxter. pp. , vo. "first paper on logic." oxford: printed by e. baxter. pp. , vo. "fourth paper on logic." oxford: printed by e. baxter. pp. , vo. "fifth paper on logic." oxford: printed by e. baxter. pp. , vo. "sixth paper on logic." oxford: printed by e. baxter. pp. , vo. "questions in logic." oxford: printed by e. baxter. pp. , fcap. fol. "alice's adventures in wonderland; and through the looking-glass." people's editions, vol. london: macmillan. cr. vo. cloth. s. d. "the game of logic." by lewis carroll. london: macmillan. pp. , cr. vo. cloth. s. "curiosa mathematica, part i. a new theory of parallels." by c. l. dodgson. london: macmillan. pp. . vo. cloth. s. (reprinted in , , and .) "memoria technica." [written with a cyclostyle.] pp. "circular billiards for two players." invented, in (?) , by lewis carroll. two editions "sylvie and bruno." by lewis carroll. with forty-six illustrations by harry furniss. london: macmillan. pp. xxiii + , cr. vo. cloth, gilt edges. (now in its th thousand.) [the picture on p. was drawn by miss alice havers.] "the nursery 'alice.'" containing twenty coloured enlargements from tenniel's illustrations to "alice's adventures in wonderland." with text adapted to nursery readers by lewis carroll. the cover designed and coloured by e. gertrude thomson. london: macmillan. pp. , to. boards. s. (now in its th thousand.) "eight or nine wise words about letter-writing." by lewis carroll. oxford: emberlin and son. (now in its th edition.) [this pamphlet is sold with the "wonderland" postage-stamp case, published by messrs. emberlin and son.] "the stranger circular." (a leaflet sent by mr. dodgson to people who wrote to him about his "lewis carroll" books, addressing the envelope to rev. c. l. dodgson.) oxford: printed by sheppard. circular, asking friends to send addresses of stationers likely to sell the "wonderland" postage-stamp case. oxford: printed by sheppard. circular sent to various hospitals, offering free copies of lewis carroll's books. oxford: printed by sheppard. list of institutions to which above was to be sent. oxford: printed by sheppard. circular, addressed to the governing body of christ church, oxford, about the proposal to invite m.a.'s to dine at high table. "a postal problem." june, . ditto, supplement. a circular about resignation of curatorship. oxford: printed by sheppard. a circular about "unparliamentary" words used by some competitors in the "syzygies" competition in the lady. oxford: printed by sheppard. "curiosissima curatoria." by 'rude donatus.' (a pamphlet sent to all resident members of christ church common room.) oxford: printed by sheppard. "eighth paper on logic." oxford: printed by sheppard. [a revised version of one page was printed in same year.] "ninth paper on logic." oxford: printed by sheppard. "notes to logic papers eight and nine." oxford: printed by sheppard. "curiosa mathematica, part iii. pillow problems," thought out during wakeful hours, by c. l. dodgson. london, macmillan: printed in oxford. pp. xvii + , vo. cloth, st and nd editions. (reprinted in , .) "syzygies and lanrick." by lewis carroll. london: the lady office. pp. . d. "sylvie and bruno concluded." by lewis carroll. with forty-six illustrations by harry furniss. london: macmillan. pp. xxi + , cr. vo. cloth, gilt edges. s. d. (now in its rd thousand.) [the picture on p. was drawn by miss alice havers.] "a disputed point in logic." "what the tortoise said to achilles." (reprinted from mind, december, .) pp. . "a fascinating mental recreation for the young." (?) (a circular about symbolic logic, signed "lewis carroll.") "resident women-students." (a circular, signed "charles l dodgson.") oxford: printed by sheppard. "symbolic logic. part i. elementary." by lewis carroll. london: macmillan. pp. xxxi + , cr. vo. cloth. s. (now in its th edition.) "three sunsets and other poems." by lewis carroll. with twelve fairy-fancies by e. gertrude thomson. london: macmillan. pp. , fcap. to. cloth, gilt edges. s. [this book is a reprint, with additions, of the serious portions of "phantasmagoria and other poems."] "to my child-friend." (a poem, reprinted in "the no date game of logic.") pp. "the alphabet-cipher." no date * * * * * index a abdy, miss dora, albany, the duchess of, "alice's adventures in wonderland," "alice's adventures underground," "alice" operetta, the, alice, princess, "alice, the nursery," allen, mrs. egerton, anderson, mrs., atkinson, miss g., atkinson, rev. f. h., b baden-powell, sir george, bayne, rev. t. vere, bennie, mrs., "blank cheque, the," bowman, miss isa, bremer, miss, "bruno's revenge," c calverley, c. s., chataway, miss g., chevalier, albert, circle-squarers, _college rhymes,_ college servants, _comic times, the,_ cook wilson, professor, croft, cunningham, miss m., d daresbury, "deserted parks, the," "determinants, an elementary treatise on," dodgson, archdeacon, dodgson, captain, dodgson, mrs., "dotheboys hall," "dreamland," drury, miss dymes, miss "dynamics of a parti-cle, the" e egerton, lord francis elphin, the bishop of elsdon eschwege, miss k. eternal punishment "euclid and his modern rivals" "euclid, books i. and ii." "euclid, book v." exhibition, the great f "facts, figures, and fancies" freiligrath kroeker, mrs. frost, a.b. furniss, harry g "game of logic, the" gatty, mrs. general elections h harrison, frederic holiday, henry hopley, rev. h. hughes, arthur hughes, miss agnes "hunting of the snark, the" hutchinson, rev. c.e. j _jabberwock, the_ jackson, miss f. jelf, canon jowett, dr. k kean, mrs. kingsley, henry kitchin, miss alexandra (xie) l "lays of sorrow" liddell, dr. liddell, miss alice liddon, canon "little minister, the" longley, archbishop m macdonald, george maitland, mrs. manners, miss m.e. maurier, george du mechanical "humpty dumpty," the "memoria technica" _misch-masch_ moscow n natural science "new belfry, the" "new method of evaluation, the" "new theory of parallels, the" nijni novgorod "notes by an oxford chiel" p paget, dean paget, sir james paine, miss adelaide patmore, coventry paton, sir noel "phantasmagoria" "pillow problems" potsdam price, professor "profits of authorship, the" pusey, dr. r _rectory umbrella, the_ "rhyme? and reason?" richmond rix, miss edith rugby ruskin, john s salisbury, the marquis of st. petersburg sanday, professor simpson, miss gaynor smedley, frank standen, miss isabel "sylvie and bruno" "sylvie and bruno concluded" "symbolic logic, part i." "syzygies" t tait, archbishop "tangled tale, a" taylor, tom tenniel, sir john tennyson, alfred terry, miss ellen terry, miss kate thackeray, w.m. thomson, miss e.g. "three sunsets" "through the looking-glass" _train, the_ "twelve months in a curatorship" v vansittart, a.a. "vision of the three t's, the" vivisection w wilberforce, bishop "wise words on letter-writing" "wonderland" stamp-case, the woodhouse, rev. g.c. y yates, edmund yonge, miss charlotte m. * * * * * footnotes. [footnote : perhaps an incorrect expression, as it was only the second attempt.] [footnote : the science of taking medicine in infinitely small doses.] [footnote : _________________________ ] [footnote : a man's history of his own life.] [footnote : the author of "the bandy-legged butterfly."] [footnote : afterwards president of the society for the prevention of cruelty to animals.] [footnote : or a pulling by the ear.] [footnote : this rectory has been supposed to have been built in the time of edward vi., but recent discoveries clearly assign its origin to a much earlier period. a stone has been found in an island formed by the river tees on which is inscribed the letter "a," which is justly conjectured to stand for the name of the great king alfred, in whose reign this house was probably built.] [footnote : the poet entreats pardon for having represented a donkey under this dignified name.] [footnote : with reference to these remarkable animals see "moans from the miserable," page .] [footnote : a full account of the history and misfortunes of these interesting creatures may be found in the first "lay of sorrow," page .] [footnote : it is a singular fact that a donkey makes a point of returning any kicks offered to it.] [footnote : this valiant knight, besides having a heart of steel and nerves of iron, has been lately in the habit of carrying a brick in his eye.] [footnote : she was sister to both.] [footnote : the reader will probably be at a loss to discover the nature of this triumph, as no object was gained, and the donkey was obviously the victor; on this point, however, we are sorry to say, we can offer no good explanation.] [footnote : much more acceptable to a true knight than "corn-land" which the roman people were so foolish as to give to their daring champion, horatius.] [footnote : lewis carroll composed this poem while staying with his cousins, the misses wilcox, at whitburn, near sunderland. to while away an evening the whole party sat down to a game of verse-making, and "jabberwocky" was his contribution.] [footnote : coesper from coena and vesper.] [footnote : lubriciles, from lubricus and graciles. see the commentary in "humpty dumpty's square," which will also explain ultravia, and, if it requires explanation, moestenui.] [footnote : sanguis meus: verg. aen. vi. --"projice tela manu, sanguis meus!"] [footnote : egnia: "muffish"--segnis; therefore "uffish" = egnis. this is a conjectural analogy, but i can suggest no better solution.] [footnote : susuffrus: "whiffling," susurrus: "whistling."] [footnote : spicula: see the picture.] [footnote : burbur: apparently a labial variation of murmur, stronger but more dissonant.] [footnote : this poem is reproduced here by the kind permission of the proprietors of punch.] oxford and its story [illustration: oxford castle (_photogravure_)] oxford and its story by cecil headlam, m.a. author of "nuremberg," "chartres," etc. etc. [illustration] with twenty-four lithographs and other illustrations by herbert railton the lithographs being tinted by fanny railton london j. m. dent & sons, ltd. new york: e. p. dutton & co. _first edition_, _second and cheaper edition_, _all rights reserved_ almae matri filius indignus haud ingratus preface the story of oxford touches the history of england, social and political, mental and architectural, at so many points, that it is impossible to deal with it fully even in so large a volume as the present. even as it is, i have been unavoidably compelled to save space by omitting much that i had written and practically all my references and acknowledgments. yet, where one has gathered so much honey from other men's flowers not to acknowledge the debt in detail appears discourteous and ungrateful; and not to give chapter and verse jars also upon the historical conscience. i can only say that, very gratefully, _j'ai pris mon bien où je l'ai trouvé_, whether in the forty odd volumes of the oxford historical society, the twenty volumes of the college histories, the accurate and erudite monographs of dr rashdall ("mediæval universities") and sir henry maxwell lyte ("history of the university of oxford to the year ") or innumerable other works. where so much has been so well done by others in the way of dealing with periods and sections of my whole subject, my chief business has been to read, mark, digest, and then to arrange my story. but to do that thoroughly has been no light task. whether it be well done or ill-done, the story now told has the great merit of providing an occasion, excuse was never needed, for the display of mr herbert railton's art. contents .....page preface.....vii list of illustrations.....xi chapter i st frideswide and the cathedral..... chapter ii the mound, the castle and some churches..... chapter iii the origin of the university..... chapter iv the coming of the friars..... chapter v the mediÆval student..... chapter vi oxford and the reformation..... chapter vii the oxford martyrs..... chapter viii elizabeth, bodley and laud..... chapter ix the royalist capital..... chapter x jacobite oxford--and after..... index..... list of illustrations oxford castle (_photogravure_)..... _frontispiece_ _tinted lithographs_ magdalen tower from the water walks....._facing page... _ christ church....."... cornmarket street....."... entrance front, pembroke college....."... archway and turret, merton college....."... university college....."... garden front, s. john's college....."... wadham college, from the gardens....."... oriel college and merton tower....."... balliol college....."... s. mary's porch....."... s. alban hall, merton college....."... quadrangle, brasenose college....."... bell tower and cloisters, new college....."... the founder's tower, magdalen college....."... front quadrangle, corpus christi college....."... cloisters, christ church....."... grammar hall, magdalen college....."... president's lodge, trinity college....."... quadrangle, jesus college....."... the gardens, exeter college....."... oriel window, s. john's college....."... the cloisters, new college....."... quadrangle and library, all souls' college....."... list of illustrations _black and white illustrations_ .....page oxford cathedral (interior)....._facing _ oxford cathedral (exterior)..... hall stairway, christ church..... abingdon abbey..... the bastion and ramparts in new college....._facing _ city walls..... chapel of our lady..... bird's-eye view of oxford ( )....._facing _ oxford castle..... s. peter's in the east....._facing _ the "bishop's palace," s. aldate's..... the radcliffe library, from brasenose college..... gables in worcester college..... gateway, worcester gardens..... oriel college....._facing _ doorway, rewley abbey..... old gateway, merton college..... monastic buildings, worcester college..... oriel window, lincoln college..... the high street..... s. mary's spire from grove lane..... gables and tower, magdalen college..... open air pulpit, magdalen college..... magdalen college....._facing _ in new college..... kemp hall....._facing _ magdalen bridge and tower..... niche and sundial, corpus christi college..... south view of bocardo..... chapel in jesus..... cooks buildings, s. john's....._facing _ from the high street..... courtyard to palace....._facing _ view from the sheldonian theatre..... oriel window, queen's lane..... oxford & its story chapter i s. frideswide and the cathedral "he that hath oxford seen, for beauty, grace and healthiness, ne'er saw a better place. if god himself on earth abode would make he oxford, sure, would for his dwelling take." dan rogers, _clerk to the council of queen elizabeth_. "vetera majestas quædam et (ut sic dixerim) religio commendat." quintilian. it is with cities as with men. the manner of our meeting some men, and the moment, impress them upon our minds beyond the ordinary. and the chance of our approach to a city is full also of significance. london approached by the thames on an ocean-going steamer is resonant of the romance of commerce, and the smoke-haze from her factories hangs about her like folds of the imperial purple. but approach her by rail and it is a tale of mean streets that you read, a tale made yet more sad by the sight of the pale, drawn faces of her street-bred people. calcutta is the london of the east, but venice, whether you view her first from the sea, enthroned on the adriatic, or step at dawn from the train into the silent gondola, is always different yet ever the same, the enchanted city, queen of the seas. and many other ports there are which live in the memory by virtue of the beauty of the approach to them: lisbon, with the scar of her earthquake across her face, looking upon the full broad tide of the tagus, from the vantage ground of her seven hills; cadiz, lying in the sea like a silver cup embossed with a thousand watch towers; naples, the siren city; sidney and constantinople; hong-kong and, above all, rio de janeiro. but among inland towns i know none that can surpass oxford in the beauty of its approach. beautiful as youth and venerable as age, she lies in a purple cup of the low hills, and the water-meads of isis and the gentle slopes beyond are besprent with her grey "steeple towers, and spires whose silent finger points to heaven." and all around her the country is a harmony in green--the deep, cool greens of the lush grass, the green of famous woods, the soft, juicy landscapes of the thames valley. you may approach oxford in summer by road, or rail, or river. most wise and most fortunate perhaps is he who can obtain his first view of oxford from headington hill, her fiesole. from headington has been quarried much of the stone of which the buildings of oxford, and especially her colleges, have been constructed. oxford owes much of her beauty to the humidity of the atmosphere, for the thames valley is generally humid, and when the floods are out, and that is not seldom, oxford rises from the flooded meadows like some superb venice of the north, centred in a vast lagoon. and just as the beauty of venice is the beauty of coloured marbles blending with the ever-changing colour of water and water-laden air, so, to a large extent, the beauty of oxford is due to this soft stone of headington, which blends with the soft humid atmosphere in ever fresh and tender harmonies, in ever-changing tones of purple and grey. by virtue of its fortunate softness this stone ages with remarkable rapidity, flakes off and grows discoloured, and soon lends to quite new buildings a deceptive but charming appearance of antiquity. arriving, then, at the top of headington hill, let the traveller turn aside, and, pausing awhile by "joe pullen's" tree, gaze down at the beautiful city which lies at his feet. her sombre domes, her dreaming spires rise above the tinted haze, which hangs about her like a delicate drapery and hides from the traveller's gaze the grey walls and purple shadows, the groves and cloisters of academe. for a moment he will summon up remembrance of things past; he will fancy that so, and from this spot, many a mediæval student, hurrying to learn from the lips of some famous scholar, first beheld the scene of his future studies; this, he will remember, is the oxford of the reformation, where, as has been said,[ ] the old world and the new lingered longest in each other's arms, like mother and child, so much alike and yet so different; the oxford also of the catholic reaction, where the young elizabethan revivalists wandered by the isis and cherwell framing schemes for the restoration of religion and the deliverance of the fair mary; the loyal and chivalrous oxford of the caroline period, the nursery of knights and gentlemen, when camp and court and cloister were combined within her walls; the oxford of the eighteenth century, still mindful of the king over the water, and still keeping alive in an age of materialism and infidelity some sparks of that loftier and more generous sentiment which ever clings to a falling cause. it is the oxford, again, of the tory and high churchman of the old school; the home of the scholar and the gentleman, the wellesleys, the cannings, the grenvilles and the stanleys. but the wesleys call her alma mater also, and, not less, newman. methodism equally with the high church movement originated here. old as the nation, yet ever new, with all the vitality of each generation's youth reacting on the sober wisdom of its predecessor, oxford has passed through all these and many other stages of history, and the phases of her past existence have left their marks upon her, in thought, in architecture and in tradition. to connect events with the traces they have left, to illustrate the buildings of oxford by her history, and her history by her buildings, has been the ideal which i have set before myself in this book. let our traveller then at length descend the hill and passing over magdalen bridge, beneath the grey tower of ever-changing beauty, the bell-tower of magdalen, enter upon the "stream-like windings of that glorious street," the high. so, over shotover, down a horse path through the thick forest the bands of mediæval scholars used to come at the beginning of each term, and wend their way across the moor to the east gate of the city. there is no gate to stop you now, no ford, no challenge of sentinels on the walls. the bell-towers of s. frideswide and osney have long been levelled to the dust, but the bells of christ church and magdalen greet you. but not altogether unfortunate, though perhaps with less time to ruminate, will he be who first approaches oxford by means of the railway. if he is wise, he will choose at paddington a seat on the off side of the carriage, facing the engine. after leaving radley the train runs past low-lying water-meadows, willow-laden, yellow with buttercups, purple with clover and the exquisite fritillary, and passing the reservoir ere it runs into the station, which occupies the site of osney abbey, it gives the observant traveller a splendid view of the town; of tom tower, close at hand, and merton tower; of the spires of the cathedral and s. aldate's; of s. mary's and all saints'; of radcliffe's dome and the dainty tower of magdalen further away; of lincoln spire and s. michael's tower, and of s. martin's at carfax. and at last, very near at hand, the old fragment of the castle: "there, watching high the least alarms, the rough, rude fortress gleams afar like some bold veteran, grey in arms and marked with many a seamy scar." of the approaches to oxford so much may be said; and as to the time when it is most fit to visit her, all times are good. but best of all are the summer months. in the spring or early summer, when the nightingales are singing in magdalen walks and the wild flowers [illustration: magdalen tower from addison's walk] spring in bagley woods, when the meadows are carpeted with purple and gold: "the frail, white-leaved anemony, dark blue-bells drenched with dews of summer eves, and purple orchises with spotted leaves;" in june, in eights' week, when the university is bravely ploughing its way through a storm of gaiety and athleticism into the inevitable maelstrom of examinations, when the streets are crowded with cricketers, oarsmen, and their sisters, when the schools and college quads are transformed into ball-rooms and many a boat lingers onward dreamily in the golden light of the setting sun beneath the willows that fringe the cherwell--at these times oxford seems an enchanted city, a land where it is always afternoon. but you will come to know her best, and to love her perhaps more dearly, if you choose the later summer months, the long vacation. then all the rich meadow-lands that surround her are most tranquil, green and mellow, and seem to reflect the peace of the ancient city, freed for a while from the turmoil of university life. then perhaps you will best realise the two-sided character of this janus-city. for there are two oxfords in one, as our story will show, upon the banks of the isis--a great county town besides a great university. and as to the mood in which you shall visit her, who shall dictate a mood in a place so various? something of the emotion that wordsworth felt may be yours: "i could not print ground where the grass had yielded to the steps of generations of illustrious men unmoved. i could not always pass through the same gateways, sleep where they had slept, wake where they waked, range that inclosure old, that garden of great intellects, undisturbed;" or something of the charming fancifulness of charles lamb which may lead you to play the student, or fetch up past opportunities, and so "pass for nothing short of a seraphic doctor." or it may please you best to spend not all your time among the bricks and stone and mortar, ever-changing as they are in hue and aspect, or amid the college groves and gardens, rich as is their beauty, perfect as is their repose. the glories of the surrounding country may tempt you most. you may wander many happy miles through cool green country, full of dark-leaved elms and furzy dingles, with the calm, bright river ever peeping at you through gaps in woods and hedges, to godstow, where rosamund clifford lived and died; to cumnor, the warm green-muffled cumnor hills, and those oaks that grow thereby, on which the eyes of amy robsart may have rested. you may choose to track the shy thames shore "through the wytham flats, red loosestrife and blond meadow-sweet among, and darting swallows and light water-gnats--" and, with the poet, learn to know the fyfield tree, the wood which hides the daffodil: "what white, what purple fritillaries the grassy harvest of the river-fields, above by ensham, down by sandford, yields, and what sedged brooks are thames's tributaries." whichever way you choose you will turn now and again to look back upon the spires and towers of oxford and radcliffe's dome, clustering together among rich gardens and noble trees, watered by the winding, willow-fringed cherwell and the silver stream of isis, "rivulets," as wood quaintly phrases it, "which seem to the prying spectator as so many snakes sporting themselves therein." and so gazing you will let your fancy roam and think of her past history and her future influence on thought and the affairs of state. * * * * * within fifty years of their first landing the northern hordes had conquered the greater part of britain. mercia, the border kingdom of the marches, had been formed, embracing the site of oxford; its heathen king penda had lived and died, the mercians had embraced christianity, and dorchester had become the seat of a christian bishop. but it was not till the eighth century a.d. that the vill of oxford, an unfortified border town on the confines of the kingdoms of mercia and wessex, came into existence; it was not till the year , one hundred and thirty years after s. augustine's mission to england, that a religious community settled there. the history of that settlement is bound up with the story of s. frideswide--fritheswithe, "the bond of peace." for although the details of the legend are evidently in part due to the imagination of the monastic chroniclers, yet there is no reason to doubt the main facts of time and place. that frideswide, the daughter of an under-king named didan, founded a nunnery at a spot where a bank of gravel ran up from what is now christ church meadow, and offered a dry site, raised above the wandering, unbarred streams, set amid lush meadows untainted as yet by human dwellings, and fringed by the virgin forests that clad the surrounding hills, we need not hesitate to believe, or that here didan presently built a little church, some traces of which yet remain in christ church cathedral. for the rest, how frideswide escaped by a miracle to binsey and lived there in the woods, in dread of the hot courtship of a young and spritely prince; how that prince was miraculously deprived of his sight when about to assault the city in revenge for his disappointment, and how from that time forward disaster dogged the footsteps of any king who entered oxford; how the virgin frideswide returned at last to oxford, and, after performing many miracles there, died and was buried in her church--are not all these things told at length in the charming prose of anthony wood? the lady chapel of the cathedral, on the north side of the choir aisle, is the architectural illustration of this story in oxford. it was enlarged in the thirteenth century, and has the early english pillars and vaulting of that period, but the eastern wall carries us back to s. frideswide's day. and on the floor is a recent brass which marks the spot where the bones of the virgin saint are now supposed to rest. here too is the shrine of s. frideswide--that shrine which used to be visited twice a year by the vice-chancellor and the principal members of the university in solemn procession "to pray, preach and offer oblations at her shrine in the mother church of university and town." this is the site of s. frideswide's first church. the lady chapel is in a line with what was the ancient nave, the central apse of that church, and there, at the east end of it and of the adjoining aisle, are the rough rag-stone arches which were built for her, and which led, according to the ancient eastern plan, into three apses. and inseparably connected with s. frideswide too is the adjacent latin chapel, by virtue of that window designed by sir e. burne-jones, one of the earliest and one of the most beautiful of the artist's designs, so lovely in its conception that, if you take each picture separately, it seems like some perfect poem by rossetti translated into colour by a mediæval craftsman. but take it as a whole and the effect is quite other than this. it is so full of subjects and dabs of bright colour that it is dazzling and almost unintelligible. burne-jones had not grasped, even if he had studied the glazier's art. apart from the fact that the great predominance of fiery reds offends the eye, the design is essentially one that has been made on paper and not in glass, drawn with pencil and brush and not in lead. worked out on a flat, opaque surface the fussy effect of the window would not be foreseen; but the overcrowded and broken character of the design is painfully obvious when set up as a window. the scenes here depicted form an illustrated history of the story of s. frideswide. the splendid fourteenth-century glass of the latin chapel contains also, besides figures of s. catherine, the patroness of students in divinity, two representations of s. frideswide. this chapel was built on to the rest at two periods; the first bay from [illustration: oxford cathedral (interior)] the west is part of the transept aisle, the second bay belongs to the thirteenth century, the third and fourth were added in the fourteenth, from which period the decorated vaulting, with its bosses of roses and water-lilies, dates. the chapel was used till recently as a lecture-room by the regius professor of divinity. the carved wood-work of the stalls and desks should be noticed. didan's or s. frideswide's church was burnt on s. brice's day, , when the general massacre of danes, which Æthelred the unready, in a fit of misguided energy, had ordered to take place on that day throughout the country, was carried out at oxford. the danes in their extremity rushed to s. frideswide's church, burst open the doors, and held the tower as a fortress against their assailants. the citizens failed to drive them out. as a last resource they set fire to the wooden roof and burned the church, "together with the ornaments and books thereof." the danes perished in the burning. nothing now remains, save the parts that i have mentioned, of the church which was then gutted. but after the massacre the king made a vow that he would rebuild s. frideswide's, and the church he then began to erect forms the main part of the cathedral as we see it to-day. those arches, so plain and massive, over the western bays of the north choir aisle and lady chapel, were part of Æthelred's transept aisle; the south transept aisle, now s. lucy's chapel; the walls of the south choir aisle; the pillars of the choir and the open triforium of the south transept--these are the chief portions of the cathedral which are thought to be unrestored parts of Æthelred's work. it is now generally admitted that the saxons, at the date of the conquest, were more advanced than the normans in the fine arts. their sculpture was more highly finished and their masonry more finely jointed. we need not therefore be surprised at the excellence and ornamentation of the work in oxford cathedral, which is attributed to this date, nor, when we remember that Æthelred was the brother-in-law of richard-le-bon, the great church-builder of normandy, need we wonder at the unwonted magnificence of Æthelred's plans for this church. the danes soon took ample revenge for that treacherous massacre. they ravaged berkshire and burned oxford ( ). the climax came when sweyn arrived. the town immediately submitted to him, and "he compelled the men of oxford and winchester to obey his laws" (saxon chronicle). Æthelred's work was interrupted by the coming of sweyn, and the king's flight to richard's court in normandy. in the south-east pier of the cathedral tower there is a noticeable break in the masonry, which marks, it is supposed, the cessation of building that coincided with the close of anglo-saxon rule. when sweyn died Æthelred returned, and for three years held cnut in check. the work at s. frideswide's was probably resumed then. the richly carved, weather-beaten capitals of the choir, with their thick abaci and remarkable ornamentation, partly saxon and partly oriental in character, are eloquent of the exile of Æthelred and of the influence of the eastern monks whom he met at the court of his brother in normandy. and they speak not only of byzantine influence, passing through normandy into england, but also, through the existing traces of exposure to rain and wind, of the ruinous state into which the church had fallen when "whether by the negligence of the seculars or the continuall disturbance of the expelled regulars, it was almost utterly forsaken and relinqueshed, and the more especially because of that troublesome warre betweene king harold and william the conqueror." for the nunnery which s. frideswide founded had soon ceased to be a nunnery. by the irony of fate, soon after her death, the nuns were removed, and the priory was handed over to a chapter of married men, the secular canons, whom s. dunstan, in his turn, succeeded in suppressing. but the nuns never came back, for, after many vicissitudes, the priory was finally restored, under henry i. ( ), as a house of the canons regular of s. augustine. some have thought that guimond, the first prior ( ), was responsible for the building of the whole church, but he more probably found enough to do in re-establishing order and restoring the monastic buildings. his successor, robert of cricklade, perhaps it was who restored Æthelred's church on the old plan and inserted most of the later norman work, especially the clerestory and presbytery. the triforium and clerestory in the nave (roofed in with sixteenth-century wood-work) give us an interesting example of the latest norman or transitional style. the clerestory consists of a pointed arch enriched with shafts at the angles, and supported on either side by low circular arches which form the openings of a wall passage. the arrangement of the triforium is remarkable. the massive pillars of the nave are alternately circular and octagonal. from their capitals, which are large, with square abaci, spring circular arches with well-defined mouldings. these are, in fact, the arches of the triforium, which is here represented by a blind arcade of two arches set in the tympanum of the main arch. the true arches of the nave spring from half capitals, set against the pillars, and are plain, with a circular moulding towards the nave. the crown of these arches is considerably below the main capitals of the pillars, from which the upper or triforium arches spring. the half capitals assist in carrying the vaulting of the aisles. the whole arrangement, rare on the continent, is extremely unusual in england, but occurs, for instance, in the transept of romsey abbey. the pillars of the choir date, as has been said, from Æthelred's day; the rest is twelfth-century restoration, save the rich and graceful pendent roof, which accords so strangely well with the robust norman work it crowns. the clerestory was converted into perpendicular, and remodelled to carry this elaborate vaulting, which should be compared with that of the old divinity school, or henry vii.'s chapel at westminster, and attributed, not in accordance with tradition to the time of wolsey, but to the close of the fifteenth century. the very effective east end is a conjectural restoration of the old norman design, and was the work of sir gilbert scott, who also opened the lantern-story and made many other sweeping changes and restorations, necessitated by the previous restorations of seventeenth-century dean duppa, and the neglect of his successors. when cricklade's restoration was finished, or nearly so, it was decided, in order to revive the once so famous memory of s. frideswide, to translate her relics from their obscure resting-place (probably the southernmost of the three saxon apses) to some notable place in the church. the king, the archbishop, many bishops, and many of the nobility and clergy gathered together to take part in this great ceremony. the bones of the saint were taken up, set in a rich gilt coffin and placed on the north side of the choir. miracles were wrought at the new shrine, and pilgrims crowded thither. the money brought in by these means was badly needed, both for the purpose of the restoration which had been in process, and which was further necessitated by the great fire which destroyed a large part of oxford in , and, whilst damaging the church, much injured the monastic buildings. the fine old norman doorway of the chapter house, which is attributed to prior guimond ( ), still bears the red marks of that fire. the chapter house itself is a very perfect chamber of the early english period. the rich and graceful carving of the capitals, the bosses of the roof, and the curious corbels, the superb glass in the side windows, the beautiful arcade of five arches, pierced for light, which fills the entire east end, complete and confirm, so pure are they in style, so excellent in detail, the just proportions of this noble room. early in the thirteenth century was built also the upper portion of the tower, and that lowly spire was added, which appears scarce [illustration: oxford cathedral] peeping above the college buildings, modestly calling attention to the half-concealed site of the smallest cathedral in england. oxford is a city of towers, and domes, and steeples, all of which possess their own peculiar character and beauty. as different as possible from the perfect proportions of magdalen tower or the ornate magnificence of the elaborate spire of the university church, this spire is low and simple--squat almost in appearance. its lowliness is easily explained. it was perhaps the very first spire built in england. the masons were cautious, afraid of their own daring in attempting to erect so lofty a construction, octagonal, upon the solid base of the norman lower story. in this first effort they did not dream of the tapering elegance of the soaring spire of salisbury, any more than of the rich ornamentation, the profusion of exuberant pinnacles, the statues and buttresses, gargoyles, crockets and arabesques, with which their successors bedecked s. mary's or the clocher neuf of chartres. strength and security was their chief aim here, though the small turrets, terminating in pyramidal octagons, which surmount the angles of the tower, are the forerunners of that exuberant ornamentation. in the bones of s. frideswide were again translated. they were put in a new and more precious shrine, placed near where the old one stood. fragments of the marble base of this shrine have been found, pieced together and set up in the easternmost arch between the lady chapel and the north choir aisle. these fragments of a beautiful work are themselves beautiful; they are adorned with finely carved foliage, intended to symbolise s. frideswide's life when she took refuge in the woods. the story of the destruction of the shrine is a strange one. before the reformation the church of s. frideswide and her shrine had enjoyed a high reputation as a place of sanctity. privileges were conceded to it by royal authority. miracles were believed to be wrought by a virtue attaching to it; pilgrims from all parts resorted to it--among them queen catherine of aragon. such practices and privileges seemed to the zealous reformers to call for summary interference. the famous shrine was doomed to destruction, and was actually destroyed. the fragments were used either at the time, or not long afterwards, to form part of the walls of a common well. the reliques of the saint, however, were rescued by some zealous votaries, and carefully preserved in hope of better times. meantime catherine (the wife of peter martyr, a foreign protestant theologian of high repute, who had been appointed regius professor of theology) died, and was buried near the place lately occupied by the shrine. over her grave sermons were preached, contrasting the pious zeal of the german protestant with the superstitious practices that had tarnished the simplicity of the saxon saint. then came another change. the roman church, under mary tudor, recovered a brief supremacy. the body of peter martyr's wife was, by order of cardinal pole, contemptuously cast out of the church, and the remains of s. frideswide were restored to their former resting-place. but it does not appear that any attempt was made to restore the shrine. party zeal still prevailed. angry contests continued between the adherents of the two parties even after the accession of elizabeth. at length the authorities of christ church were commissioned to remove the scandal that had been caused by the inhuman treatment of catherine martyr's body. on january th, , the bones of the protestant catherine and the catholic s. frideswide were put together, so intermingled that they could not be distinguished, and then placed together in the same tomb: "iam coeunt pietas atque superstitio." under the easternmost arch, between the lady chapel and the latin chapel, is the fine chantry tomb, an elaborately wrought and very beautiful example of perpendicular workmanship, which is supposed to have been the third and more splendid shrine of s. frideswide, or else to have served as a "watching chamber," as it is [illustration: hall stairway christchurch herbert railton oxford] commonly called, to protect the gold and jewels which hung about the earlier shrine. under the prior guimond there was certainly a school connected with the convent. whatever the origin of the university may have been--and there are those who maintain that it sprang from the schools of s. frideswide as naturally as that of paris from the schools of notre dame--it is pleasant to remember, when you stand in the middle of tom quad, that you are on the site of this, the first educational institution of oxford, just as when you stand in the lady chapel of the cathedral you are on the site of the old priory, the mother church of the university and town. another faint echo of the priory days may be traced in the annual cakestall in s. olds, which is a survival of the fair of s. frideswide that used to last seven days. during that time the keys of the city passed from mayor to prior, and the town courts were closed in favour of the pie-powder court,[ ] held by the steward of the priory for the redress of all disorders committed during the fair. the entrance to the cathedral is through the two arches in the cloisters, directly opposite to you as you pass into tom quad beneath tom tower. this curious entrance reminds you at once of the peculiar position of the cathedral as three parts college chapel. tom quad is the largest quadrangle in oxford ( by feet), and was begun by wolsey on a scale which is sufficient evidence of the extreme magnificence of his plans for "cardinal's college." it was begun, but has never been finished. the shafts and marks of the arches, from which the vaults of the intended cloister were to spring, are, however, plainly visible. of the old cloister of the monastery no trace remains save the windows and door of the chapter house; the fifteenth-century cloisters that do exist are not to be compared with those of new college or magdalen. one side of them was destroyed by wolsey to make room for the college hall. on the south side of the cloister is the old library, which was formerly the refectory of the monastery. with the chapter house doorway it survives as a relic of the old conventual buildings, in quiet contrast to the splendour of the superb kitchen, and the still more magnificent hall, with its valuable collection of portraits. the vaulted chamber, which contains the staircase by which this hall is approached, is one of the most beautiful things in oxford. the lovely fan-tracery of the vault and the central pillar were the work of "one smith, an artificer from london," and were built as late as , in the reign of charles ii. it affords a striking instance of the fact in architectural history, that good gothic persisted in oxford long after the influence of italian work had destroyed it elsewhere. to make room for this magnificent quadrangle of his the cardinal also destroyed the three western bays of the church of s. frideswide. he had intended to build a new chapel along the north side of tom quad which should rival the chapel of king's college at cambridge. but this work was interrupted by his fall. the foundations of the chapel have been traced, and they show that the west end ran in a line with the octagonal turrets in s. aldate's street, and the walls reached nearly to fell's passage into peckwater. for its massive walls wolsey used some of the stones from the demolished osney abbey. the building at the time of his fall had risen some feet above the ground. dean fell, it is supposed, used it as a quarry for the construction of his own quadrangle. now, there had been constructed a new straight walk in the meadows, and fell, anxious to improve it, carted the chippings from his own work to lay on it. the chippings were white, so the walk got the name of white. this was corrupted at the end of the eighteenth century to wide walk, and hence to broad [illustration: christ's church] walk--its present name--which really describes it now better than the original phrase. the destruction of the western bays of the church by wolsey accounts for the shortened aspect of the nave, slightly relieved though it is by the new western bay which serves as a sort of ante-chapel to the nave and choir which now form the college chapel of christ church. but the appearance of the cathedral owes something of its strangeness to the fact that it represents, in general plan, the design of king Æthelred's church reared upon the site of s. frideswide's. chapter ii the mound, the castle and some churches the property of s. frideswide's nunnery formed one of the chief elements in the formation of the plan of oxford. the houses of the population which would spring up in connection with it were probably grouped on the slope by the northern enclosure wall of the nunnery, and were themselves bounded on the north by the road which afterwards became the high street, and on the west by that which was afterwards named southgate street, then fish street, and is now known as s. aldate's. this road, giving access from wessex to mercia, was probably one of the direct lines from the north-west to london in the tenth century. it led down to the old fords over the shallows which once intersected the meadows of south hincksey, and gave, as some suppose, its name to the town.[ ] the fords were superseded by the old grand pont, and grand pont in turn by folly bridge. folly bridge, as it now stands, was built a little south of grand pont, the old river-course to the north having been filled up by an embankment. the river now marks the shire boundary which was once marked hereabouts by the shire ditch. crossing the bridge to the berkshire shore, the road, wherein you may still trace the piers of the old grand pont "linked with many a bridge," leads up to hincksey. there the modern golf-links are, and the "lone, sky-pointing tree" that clough and arnold loved. and this road it was which, in the poetic imagination of matthew arnold, was haunted by the scholar gipsy. the main road leads over the hill, which is crowned by bagley wood, to abingdon. that charming village, where once the great monastery stood, was separated in early days from the city by a great oak forest. wandering therein, book in hand, a certain student, so the story runs, was met by a ferocious wild boar, which he overcame by thrusting his aristotle down the beast's throat. the boar, having no taste for such logic, was choked by it, and his head, borne home in triumph, was served up, no doubt, at table in the student's hall with a sprig of rosemary in its mouth. the custom of serving a boar's head on christmas day at queen's college, whilst the tabarder sang: "the boar's head in hand bear i bedecked with bays and rosemary, and i pray you masters merry be-- quotquot estis in convivio. chorus--_caput apri defero_ _reddens laudes domino_," _etc._, is said to have originated in that incident. s. aldate's road, after leaving the river, skirted the enclosure of s. frideswide, and gradually ascended the sloping gravel bank in a northerly direction. here it was met by another road which, coming from the east, connected oxford with the wallingford district. the crossing of these roads came to be known as the four ways, quadrifurcus, corrupted into carfax. and carfax was the second of the chief elements in the formation of oxford. for at this point, as if to mark its importance in the history of the town, was erected s. martin's church, which has always been the city church, and in the churchyard of which town councils (portmannimotes) perhaps were held. it was founded under a charter of cnut ( ) by the wealthy and vigorous abbey of abingdon, which, together with the foundation at eynsham, seems to have thrown the monastery of s. frideswide very much into the shade both as to energy and influence. [illustration: abingdon abbey] the tower, restored by mr t. g. jackson, is the only remaining fragment of the old church. a modern structure was wisely removed in to broaden the thoroughfare. two quaint figures, which in bygone days struck the quarters on the old church, have been restored to a conspicuous position on the tower. shakespeare, who on his way to stratford used to stop at the crown inn, a house then situated near the cross in the cornmarket, is said to have stood sponsor in the old church to sir william davenant in . john davenant, father of the poet and landlord of the inn, was mayor of oxford. his wife was a very beautiful woman. scandal reported that shakespeare was more than godfather to sir william. but if the tower be all that remains of the original structure, "s. martin's at carfax" still commands the high street, and, serene amidst the din of trams, of skurrying marketers and jostling undergraduates, recalls the days when the town was yet in the infancy of its eventful life. the third element in the formation of the place was the mound. mediæval towns usually began by clustering thickly round a stronghold, and there is reason to believe that at the beginning of the tenth century oxford was provided with a fortress. in the year oxford is mentioned for the first time in authentic history. for there is an entry in the saxon chronicle to the effect that "this year died Æthelred, ealdorman of the mercians, and king edward took possession of london and oxford and of all the lands which owed obedience thereto." the danes were ravaging the country. mercia had been over-run by them the year before. the chronicle for several years presents a record of the danes attacking various places, and either eadward or his sister Æthelflæd defending them and building fortresses for their defence. they fortified, for instance, tamworth and warwick and runcorn, and at each of these places the common feature of fortification is a conical mound of earth. take a tram from carfax to the railway station, and stop at the county courts and gaol on your way. the county gaol you need not visit, or admire its absurd battlements, but within the sham façade is the tower that remains from the castle of robert d'oigli, and beside the tower is just such a conical mound of earth--the castle mound. against raids and incursions oxford was naturally protected on three sides. for the thames on the west and south and the cherwell on the east cut her off from the attack of land forces, whilst even against danes coming up the thames from reading, marsh lands and minor streams within the belt of these outer waters protected her. for in those early days, when nature had things almost entirely her own way, there were many more branches of the river, many minor tributary streams flowing where now you see nothing but houses and streets. the trill mill stream, for instance, which left the main stream on the west of what is now paradise square, is now covered over for the greater part of its course; whilst the main stream, after passing beneath the road some seventy yards outside south gate, gave off another stream running due south, parallel with the road to folly bridge, but itself evidently continued its own course across merton fields by the side of what is now broad walk, and finally found its way into the cherwell. and besides this stream, which ran under s. frideswide's enclosure, there were, on the east, the minor streams which now enclose the magdalen walks. but what oxford needed to strengthen her was some wall or fosse along the line occupied afterwards by the northern wall of the city, along the line, that is, of george street, broad street and holywell, and also some _place d'armes_, some mound, according to the fashion of the times, with accompanying ditches. with these defences it seems probable that she was now provided. thus fortified oxford becomes the chief town of oxfordshire, the district attached to it. and during the last terrible struggle of england with the danes its position on the borders of the mercian and west-saxon realms seems for the moment to have given it a political importance under Æthelred and cnut strikingly analogous to that which it acquired in the great rebellion. after sweyn's death oxford was chosen as the meeting-place of the great gemot of the kingdom. the gemots, which were now and afterwards held at oxford, were probably held about the mound, where houses were erected for the royal residence. in one of these Æthelweard, the king's son, breathed his last; one was the scene of another dastardly murder of danes, when eadric ( ) ensnared sigeferth and morkere into his chamber, and there slew them. and here it was, according to henry of huntingdon, that king edmund, who had been making so gallant a struggle against the conquering cnut, was murdered by eadric's son. eadric, we know, was a traitor, and well-skilled in murders at oxford. he, when his son had stabbed edmund by his directions, came to cnut and [illustration: cornmarket street] "saluted him, saying, 'hail, thou art sole king.' when he had laid bare the deed done, the king answered, 'i will make thee on account of thy great deserts higher than all the tall men of england.' and he ordered him to be beheaded and his head to be fixed on a pole on the highest tower of london. thus perished edmund, a brave king." and cnut, the dane, reigned in his stead. beneath the shadow of the mound, built to repel the danish incursions, the danish king now held an assembly of the people. at this gemot "danes and angles were unanimous, at oxford, for eadgar's law." the old laws of the country were, then, to be retained, and his new subjects were reconciled to the danish king. but these subjects, the townsmen of those days, are but dim and shadowy beings to us. it is only by later records that we see them going on pilgrimage to the shrines of winchester, or chaffering in their market-place, or judging and law-making in their husting, their merchant-guild regulating trade, their reeve gathering his king's dues of tax or honey, or marshalling his troop of burghers for the king's wars, their boats floating down the thames towards london and paying the toll of a hundred herrings in lent-tide to the abbot of abingdon by the way. for the river was the highway, and toll was levied on it. in edward the confessor's time, in return for the right of making a passage through the mead belonging to abingdon, it was agreed that all barges that passed through carrying herrings during lent should give to the cook of that monastery a hundred of them, and that when the servant of each barge brought them into the kitchen the cook should give him for his pains five of them, a loaf of bread and a measure of ale. in the seventeenth century the river had become so choked that no traffic was possible above maidenhead till an act was passed for the re-opening of it. it was at oxford that a great assembly of all the witan was held to elect cnut's successor harold, and at oxford, so pernicious a place for kings, that harold died. at oxford again when the northumbrian rebels, slaying and burning, had reached it ( ), the gemot was held which, in renouncing tostig, came to the decision, the direct result of which was to leave england open to the easy conquest of william of normandy when he landed in the following year. five years later we find robert d'oigli in peaceful possession of oxford, busy building one of those norman castles, by which william made good his hold upon england, strongholds for his norman friends, prisons for rebellious englishmen. the river he held by such fortresses as this at oxford, and the castles of wallingford and windsor. oxford had submitted without resistance to the conqueror. there is no evidence that she suffered siege like exeter or york, but many historians, freeman among them, state that she was besieged. they have been misled by the error of a transcriber. savile printed _urbem oxoniam_, for _exoniam_, in his edition of "william of malmesbury," and the mischief was done. a siege at this time has been supposed to explain a remarkable fact which is recorded in the domesday survey. "in the time of king edward," so runs the record of domesday book: "oxeneford paid for toll and gable and all other customs yearly--to the king twenty pounds, and six measures of honey, and to earl algar ten pounds, besides his mill within the [city]. when the king went out to war, twenty burgesses went with him in lieu of the rest, or they gave twenty pounds to the king that all might be free. now oxeneford pays sixty pounds at twenty-pence to the ounce. _in the town itself, as well within the wall as without, there are houses that pay geld, and besides these there are houses unoccupied and ruined (tam vastæ et destructæ) so that they can pay no geld._ the king has twenty wall mansions, which were earl algar's in the time of king edward, paying both then and now fourteen shillings less twopence; and one mansion paying sixpence, belonging to shipton; another paying fourpence, belonging to bloxham; a third paying thirty pence, belonging to risborough; and two others paying fourpence, belonging to twyford in buckinghamshire; one of these is unoccupied. they are called wall mansions because, if there is need and the king command it, they shall repair the wall.... all the burgesses of oxeneford hold in common a pasture outside the wall that brings in six shillings and eightpence.... if any stranger who chooses to live in oxeneford, and has a house, dies there without relatives, the king has all that he leaves." the extraordinary proportion of ruined and uninhabited houses enumerated in this record, however, was probably due not to any siege by the normans and not mainly to harsh treatment at their hands, but to the ravaging and burning of that rebellious band of northumbrians who had come upon oxford "like a whirlwind" in . robert d'oigli himself is recorded to have had "forty-two inhabited houses as well within as without the wall. of these sixteen pay geld and gable, the rest pay neither, on account of poverty; and he has eight mansions unoccupied and thirty acres of meadow near the wall and a mill of ten shillings. the whole is worth three pounds and for one manor held he holds with the benefice of s. peter...." (sentence incomplete). these houses belonged wholly to holywell manor,[ ] and the mill referred to is no doubt that known as _holywell mill_, supplied with water from the cherwell. thus domesday book gives us a glimpse of a compact little town within a vallum, half a mile from east to west, and a quarter of a mile south to north. we may think of the gravel promontory as covered with houses and their gardens, and inhabited by some thousand souls. a market-place there would have been at or near carfax, and fairs must have been held there, though we have no mention of them till the reign of henry i. the "wall" of the enceinte, which, according to domesday book, the inhabitants of the mural mansions were compelled to repair, was probably a vallum of earth faced with stone, protected by a deep ditch in front, and surmounted by wood-work to save the soldiers from arrows. d'oigli, we may presume, put the existing fortifications of the town in order. the fortifications, which were constructed in the reign of henry iii., followed in the main the line of the vallum repaired by d'oigli. they consisted of a curtain wall and outer ditch, protected by a parapet and by round towers placed at regular intervals and advanced so as to command besiegers who might approach to attack the wall. there were staircases to the top of the towers. a good idea of them and the general scheme of the fortifications may be obtained by a visit to the fragment of the city wall which yet remains within the precincts of new college. the slype, as it is called, forms a most picturesque approach to new college gardens, and the old-bastioned wall forms part of the boundary between the new college property and holywell street. it is indeed owing to this fact that the wall still remains there intact, for the licence to found a college there was granted to william of wykeham on condition of keeping the city wall in repair and of allowing access to the mayor and burgesses once in three years to see that this was done, and to defend the wall in time of war. from new college the city wall ran down to the high street.[ ] the east gate hotel, facing the new schools, marks the site of the old entrance to the city hereabouts. it is a recent construction in excellent taste by mr e. p. warren. from this point the wall ran on to merton, and thence to christ church. the south wall of the cathedral chapter house is on the line of the old city wall. it is said that some of the old wall was taken down for the erection [illustration: the bastion and ramparts in new college] of the college hall. along the north side of brewer street (lambard's lane, slaying lane or king's street) are here and there stones of the city wall, if not remnants of the walling. at the extreme end of brewer street the arch of slaying lane well is just visible, once described as "under the wall." [illustration: city walls] the south gate spanned s. aldate's, close to the south-west corner of christ church; little gate was at the end of brewer street, and the west gate was in castle street, beyond the old church of s. peter-le-bailly. from the south gate faint traces in "the friars" indicate its course, and the indications are clear enough by new inn hall street, ship inn yard and bullock's alley. cornmarket street was crossed by s. michael's church, where stood the north gate. the gate house of the north gate was used as the town prison. it rejoiced in the name of bocardo, jestingly so called from a figure in logic; for a man once committed to that form of syllogism could not expect to extricate himself save by special processes. old bastions and the line of the ditch are found behind the houses opposite balliol college. the site of balliol college was then an open space, and broad street was canditch. this name was derived by wood from candida fossa, a ditch with a clear stream running along it. wood's etymology is not convincing. mr hurst has suggested a more likely derivation in camp ditch. as a street name it reached from the angle of balliol to smith gate. an indication of the old fosse, filled up, is to be found in the broad gravel walk north of the wall near new college. from bocardo the wall ran towards the sheldonian theatre. the outer line of the passage between exeter chapel and the house to the north of it was the line of the south face of the old city wall. a bastion was laid bare in in the north quad of exeter. the wall passed in a diagonal line across the quadrangle south of the clarendon building, turned northwards in cat's street, and ran up to the octagonal chapel of our lady by smith gate. the remains of this little chapel, with a beautiful little "annunciation" in a panel over the south entrance, have recently been revealed to the passer-by by the new buildings of hertford college, between which and the feeble mass of the indian institute it seems strangely out of place. [illustration: chapel of our lady.] from smith gate the wall returned to new college, and so completed the circuit of the town. a reference to the map will elucidate this bare narration of mine. but to return to robert d'oigli, the conqueror's castellan. from what little we know of him, he would appear to have been a typical norman baron, ruthless, yet superstitious, strong to conquer and strong to hold. very much the rough, marauding soldier, but gifted with an instinct for government and order, he came over to the conquest of england in the train of william the bastard and in the company of roger d'ivry, his sworn brother, to whom, as the chronicler tells us, he was "iconfederyd and ibownde by faith and sacrament." oxfordshire was committed to his charge by the conqueror, to reduce to final subjection and order. he seems to have ruled it in rude soldierly fashion, enforcing order, tripling the taxation of the town and pillaging without scruple the religious houses of the neighbourhood. for it was only by such ruthless exaction that the work which william had [illustration: bird's-eye view of oxford by ralph agas ( ): from the engraving by whittlesey ( ).] set him to do could be done. he had indeed been amply provided for, so far as he himself was concerned, by the conqueror, chiefly through a marriage with a daughter of wiggod of wallingford, who had been cupbearer to edward the confessor; but money was needed for the great fortress which was now to be built to hold the town, after the fashion of the normans, and by holding the town to secure, as we have said, the river. "in the year ," it is recorded in the chronicle of osney abbey, "was built the castle of oxford by robert d'oigli." and by the castle we must understand not the mound which was already there, nor such a castle as was afterwards built in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, but at least the great tower of stone which still exists and was intended to guard the western approach to the castle. s. george's tower, for so it was called because it was joined to the chapel of s. george's college within the precincts, was upon the line of the enceinte. the walls are eight feet four inches thick at the bottom, though not more than four feet at the top. the doorway, which is some twelve feet from the ground, was on the level of the vallum or wall of fortification, and gave access to the first floor. there are traces of six doorways above the lead roof, which gave access to the "hourdes." these were wooden hoardings or galleries that could be put up outside. they had holes for the crossbows, and holes for the pouring down of stones, boiling pitch or oil on to the heads of threatening sappers. they were probably stored in the top room of the tower, which is windowless. the construction of the staircase of the tower is very peculiar. ascend it and you will obtain a magnificent view of oxford, of iffley and sandford lock, shotover and the chiltern hills, hincksey, portmeadow, godstow, woodstock and wytham woods. on the mound close at hand there was, after d'oigli's day, a ten-sided keep built in the style of henry iii. to reach the mound you go within the gaol, and pass by a pathetic little row of murderers' graves, sanded heaps, distinguished by initials. under the mound is a very deep well, covered over by a groined chamber of transitional design. five towers were added later to the castle, as agas' map ( ) shows us. after the civil war, colonel draper, governor of oxford, "sleighted," as wood expresses it, the work about the city, but greatly strengthened the castle. but in the following year ( ), when the scots invaded england, he, for some reason, "sleighted" the castle works too. the five towers, shown in agas' map, and other fortifications then disappeared. s. george's tower alone survives. stern and grim that one remaining fragment of the old castle stands up against the sky, a landmark that recalls the good government of the norman kings. but the most romantic episode connected with it occurred amidst the horrors of the time when the weakness and misrule of stephen, and the endeavours of matilda to supplant him, had plunged the country into that chaos of pillage and bloodshed from which the norman rule had hitherto preserved it. after the death of his son, henry i. had forced the barons to swear to elect his daughter matilda as his successor. but they elected stephen of blois, grandson of the conqueror, whose chief claim to the crown, from their point of view, was his weak character. in a parliament at oxford ( ) he granted a charter with large liberties to the church, but his weakness and prodigality soon gave the barons opportunities of revolt. released from the stern control of henry they began to fortify their castles; in self-defence the great ministers of the late king followed their example. stephen seized the bishops of salisbury and lincoln at oxford, and forced them to surrender their strongholds. the king's misplaced violence broke up the whole system of government, turned the clergy against him and opened the way for the revolt of the adherents of matilda. the west was for her; london and the east supported stephen. victory at lincoln placed stephen a captive in the hands of matilda, and the [illustration: oxford castle] land received her as its "lady." but her contemptuous refusal to allow the claims of the londoners to enjoy their old privileges, and her determination to hold stephen a prisoner, strengthened the hand of her opponents. they were roused to renew their efforts. matilda was forced to flee to oxford, and there she was besieged by stephen, who had obtained his release. stephen marched on oxford, crossed the river at the head of his men, routed the queen's supporters, and set fire to the city. matilda shut herself up in the castle and prepared to resist the attacks of the king. but stephen prosecuted the siege with great vigour; every approach to the castle was carefully guarded, and after three months the garrison was reduced to the greatest straits. provisions were exhausted; the long-looked-for succour never came; without, stephen pushed the siege harder than ever. it seemed certain that matilda must fall into his hands. her capture would be the signal for the collapse of the rebellion. but just as the end seemed inevitable, matilda managed to escape in marvellous wise. there had been a heavy fall of snow; so far as the eye could see from the castle towers the earth was hidden beneath a thick white pall. the river was frozen fast. the difficulty of distinguishing a white object on this white background, and the opportunity of crossing the frozen river by other means than that of the guarded bridge, suggested a last faint chance of escape. matilda's courage rose to the occasion. she draped herself in white, and with but one companion stole out of the beleaguered castle at dead of night, and made her way, unseen, unheard through the friendly snow. dry-footed she stole across the river, and gradually the noise of the camp faded away into the distance behind her. for six weary miles she stumbled on through the heavy drifts of snow, until at last she arrived in safety at wallingford. the bird had flown, and the castle shortly afterwards surrendered to the baffled king (_gesta stephani_). during this siege the people were deprived of the use of the church of s. george, and to supply their spiritual needs a new church sprang into existence. it was dedicated to s. nicholas, and afterwards to s. thomas a becket. of the original church, just opposite the l. & n.w. railway station, part of the chancel remains. the tower is fifteenth century. the castle mill is mentioned in the domesday survey. the present mill no doubt occupies the same site; its foundations may preserve some of the same masonry as that which is thus recorded to have existed hereabouts before the conquest. you will notice that the castle occupies almost the lowest position in the town, and remembering all the other norman castles you have seen, windsor or durham, lincoln or william the bastard's own birth-place at falaise, the oxford site may well give you pause, till you remember that the position of the old tenth-century fort had been chosen as the one which best commanded the streams against the danes, whose incursions were mainly made by means of the rivers. if carfax had been clear, d'oigli would have built his castle at carfax; but it was covered with houses and s. martin's; and, shrinking from the expense that would have been involved, and the outcry that would have been raised, if he had cleared the high central point of the town, he was content to modify and strengthen the old fort. but as the descent of queen street from carfax threatened the castle, if the town were taken, there was no regular communication made between the castle and the town. a wooden drawbridge across the deep ditches that defended the castle led to the town, somewhere near castle street. this would be destroyed in time of danger. no other entrance to the town was allowed on this side. "all persons coming across the meadows from the west and all the goods disembarked at the hythe from the barges and boats would have to be taken in at the north gate of the town, the road passing along the north bank of the city ditch and following, probably, exactly the same course as that followed by george street to-day" (parker). and round about the castle itself an open space was preserved by the policy of the castellan, and known as the bailly (ballium, outer court). the church of s. peter le bailly recalls the fact. study the history of most cathedrals and you will discover that, like chartres or durham, "half house of god, half castle 'gainst the scot," they have served and were intended to serve at some period of their career as fortresses as well as churches. when bishop remigius removed the see from dorchester to lincoln, as he did at this time ( ), henry of huntingdon writes: "he built a church to the virgin of virgins, strong in a strong position, fair in a fair spot, which was agreeable to those who serve god and also, as was needful at the time, impregnable to an enemy." the tower of s. michael's at north gate is a good example of this mingling of the sacred with the profane, and the architectural feature of it is that it combines the qualities of a campanile with those of the tower of the castle. it was a detached tower, and not part and parcel of the church which stood at the north gate, as it is now. in the fifteenth century the city wall was extended northwards so as to include the church. the tower is placed just where we should expect to find that the need of fortification was felt. south and east, oxford was now protected by the thames and the cherwell as well as by her "vallum," and on the west was the castle. but the north gate needed protection, and d'oigli built the tower of s. michael's to give it, spiritual and temporal both. at a later date there was erected a chapel, also dedicated to s. michael, near the south gate, and with reference to this church and chapel and the churches of s. peter in the east and in the west, there is a mediæval couplet which runs as follows: "invigilat portæ australi boreæque michael, exortum solem petrus regit atque cadentem." "at north gate and at south gate too s. michael guards the way, while o'er the east and o'er the west s. peter holds his sway." the military character of s. michael's tower is marked by that round-headed doorway, which you may perceive some thirty feet from the ground on the north side. just as the blocked-up archways at the top of the castle tower once gave access to the wooden galleries which projected from the wall, so this doorway opened on to a lower gallery which guarded the approach to the adjoining gateway. on the south side of the tower you will find traces of another doorway, the base of which was about twelve feet from the level of the ground. it is reasonable to suppose that the tower projected from the north side of the rampart, and that this doorway was the means of communication between them. the other doorway, on the west side, level with the street, gave access from the road to the basement story of the tower. architecturally the tower may be said to be a connecting link between the romanesque and norman styles. the system of rubble, with long-and-short work at the angles, has not yet given place to that of surface ashlar masonry throughout, and the eight pilaster windows, it should be observed, of rude stone-work carved with the axe, present the plain, pierced arches, with mid-wall shafts, which preceded the splayed norman window and arches with orders duly recessed. the church itself adjoining the tower is of various periods, chiefly fourteenth century. it was, together with s. mildred's, united (in ) to all saint's church, which then was made a collegiate parish church by the foundation of lincoln college adjoining. not only was robert d'oigli a builder of walls and towers, but, in the end, of churches also. the chronicle of abingdon abbey records the story of his conversion. "in his greed for gain, says the chronicler, he did everywhere harass the churches, and especially the abbey of abingdon. amongst other evil deeds he appropriated for the use of the castle garrison a meadow that lay outside the walls of oxford and belonged to the abbey. touched to the quick the brethren assembled before their altar and cried to heaven for vengeance. meantime, whilst day and night they were thus calling upon the blessed mary, robert fell into a grievous sickness in which he continued many days impenitent, until one night he dreamed that he stood within the palace of a certain great king. and before a glorious lady who was seated upon a throne there knelt two of the monks whose names he knew and they said 'lady, this is he who seizes the lands of your church.' after which words were uttered she turned herself with great indignation towards robert and commanded him to be thrust out of doors and to be led to the meadow. and two youths made him sit down there, and a number of ruffianly lads piled burning hay round him and made sport of him. some tossed haybands in his face and others singed his beard and the like. his wife, seeing that he was sleeping heavily, woke him up and on his narrating to her his dream she urged him to go to abingdon and restore the meadow. to abingdon therefore he caused his men to row him and there before the altar he made satisfaction." there are two points to be noted in this story. first, that the meadow in question was doubtless that which bears the name of _king's mead_ to this day; second, that the river was a much used highway in those and in much later times, ere money and macadam, and afterwards george stephenson, had substituted roads and rails and made the water-way slow and no safer. to return to our chronicler. "and after the aforesaid vision which he had seen, how that he was tortured by evil demons at the command of the mother of god, not only did he devote himself to the building of the church of s. mary of abingdon but he also repaired at his own expense other parish churches that were in a ruined state both within and without the walls. a great bridge, also, was built by him on the north side of oxford (high or hythe (= haven) bridge). and he dying in the month of september was honourably buried within the presbytery at abingdon on the north side, and his wife lies in peace buried on his left." together with his sworn friend, roger d'ivry, he founded the "church of s. george in the castle of oxenford." this church stood adjacent to the castle tower, but it was removed in to make room for the prison buildings.[ ] probably, also, d'oigli founded a church, dedicated to s. mary magdalen, situated just without the north gate, and intended to supply the spiritual wants of travellers and dwellers without the walls. the church was on the site of the present church of s. mary magdalen; but no trace of the original work has been left by the early victorian restorers. it passed with the church of s. george to osney abbey, and then with its patron to the successors of the canons of s. frideswide's, the prebends or canons of christ church. d'oigli probably built also the church of s. michael at the north gate and s. peter's within the east gate; and as for his restorations, they may have included the parish church, s. martin's, and also s. mary's and s. ebbe's, which latter may possibly have been built in the time of edward the confessor. how very literally s. peter's guarded the east may be gathered by inspecting the two turrets at the east end of the church. there were small openings in these whence a watch could be kept over the streams and the approach to east gate. whether the crypt of this church, as we now have it, dates entirely from d'oigli's time is a moot point. it may be that it does, but the actual masonry, it will be noticed, the ashlar work, capitals and arches, are superior to that of the castle and s. michael's. the plan of the original crypt of s. george's in the castle shows that it had, in accordance with the general rule of eleventh-century work in this country, an apsidal termination. the crypt of s. peter's, as built in d'oigli's day, was, it is suggested, no exception. it had an apsidal termination which did not extend so far towards the east as the present construction. but, as happened again and again in the history of innumerable churches and cathedrals at [illustration: s. peter's in the east] home and abroad, of chartres, rochester, canterbury, for instance, the crypt was presently extended eastwards. the extension in the present case would enable the small apse to be changed into a larger choir with a rectangular east end. the result is, that looking eastwards, and noticing that there is no apparent break between the wall of the crypt and the wall of the chancel above, which evidently belongs to the middle of the twelfth century, you would be inclined to attribute the whole crypt to that date, if you did not notice the small doorways on either side and at the western end. looking westward, you see work which carries you back to the days when s. michael's and the castle tower were being built. for the three western arches, two of them doorways now blocked up and the central one open, indicate a type of crypt which is generally held not to have been used later than the beginning of the twelfth century. the essential features of this type were that the vault of the crypt was raised some feet above the level of the floor of the nave, and that both from the north and south side of the nave steps led down into the crypt. and in some cases there were central steps as well, or at least some opening from the nave. here then, as at repton, you have indications of this type, for behind each of the blocked-up doorways is a passage leading to some steps or clear traces of steps, and the central archway may have provided originally an opening to the nave, through which a shrine may have been visible, or else a communication by central steps. the entrance to this remarkable crypt, with its vaulting of semi-circular arches of hewn stone, is from the outside. the crypt has capitals of a peculiar design to several of the shafts, and four of the bases ornamented with spurs formed by the heads of lizard-shaped animals. the chancel and the south doorway afford remarkably rich examples of the late norman style. the fifteenth-century porch, with a room over it, somewhat hides, but has doubtless protected the latter. the early decorated tower, the exterior arcading of the chancel, the unique groining of the sanctuary ("s. peter's chain,") and the two beautiful decorated windows on the north, and the early english arcade of the nave, are all worthy of remark in this interesting church. of the old church of s. ebbe (s. Æbba was the sister of s. oswald), which was rebuilt in and again partially in , nothing now remains save the stone-work of a very rich late norman doorway, which was taken down and built into the south wall of the modern building. the other church which is mentioned at this period is s. aldate's. now, nothing is known of the saint to whom this church is supposed to have been dedicated, and from whom, as we have seen, the street which runs from carfax to folly bridge borrows its name. in no ancient martyrology or calendar does s. aldate appear. it is quite possible that there was such a saint, and if there was, he would not be the only one who survives in our memory solely by virtue of the churches dedicated to him. but the corruption--s. told's--s. old's is found in thirteenth-century chartularies and in popular parlance to-day. this corruption is curious, and may be significant. s. aldate's church at oxford lies just within the old south gate of the town; the only other church of the same name lies just within the old north gate of gloucester. in an old map of gloucester this latter church is called s. aldgate's; in an old map of oxford the same spelling occurs. at oxford the street now known as s. aldate's was once called south gate street. it seems likely, therefore, that aldate represents a corruption from old gate = aldgate = aldate, and that the name, when it had become so far corrupted, was supposed to be that of a saint. but the true meaning, as so often happens, lived on, when men spoke with unconscious correctness of s. old's. the church itself, as it now stands, is chiefly the product of a restoration in ,[ ] but the south aisle was built in by sir john docklington, a fishmonger who was several times mayor. over it there used to be an upper story which served as a library for the use of students in civil law who frequented the neighbouring hall, broadgates hall, which became pembroke college in , when thomas tesdale endowed it and named it after lord pembroke the chancellor, and king james assumed the honours of founder. in the library the refectory of the old hall survives. the rest of the front quadrangle was added in the seventeenth century and gothicised in the eighteenth. it was in a room over the gateway that dr johnson lived, when pembroke was "a nest of singing birds." the eighteenth-century chapel, decorated ( ) by mr kempe, and the new hall should tempt the visitor into the back quadrangle. in the days of robert d'oigli, then, oxford was provided with no less than eight churches, dedicated to s. frideswide, s. martin, s. george, s. mary magdalen, s. mary the virgin, s. peter, s. michael and s. ebbe. by the end of the reign of henry i. this number had been more than doubled. and seeing that much church building is and always was a sign of prosperity and security, the fact that eight new churches sprang up within so short a time after the norman conquest may be taken to prove that under her sheriffs and portreeves oxford enjoyed good government and made rapid progress in population and wealth. of these eight or ten new churches no trace remains of s. mildred's, save the pathway across the old churchyard which survives in the modern brasenose lane; and the church dedicated to s. eadward the martyr, which lay between s. frideswide's and the high, has likewise disappeared; the exact sites of the church of s. budoc, the chapel of the holy trinity and of s. michael at the south gate, cannot be identified; the chapel of s. clement, on the other side of magdalen bridge, gave way to a fourteenth-century church, and was wholly cleared away at the beginning of the nineteenth century; all saint's and s. peter's, in the bailey of the castle, were entirely rebuilt in the eighteenth century, and the latter re-erected on another site in the nineteenth. the old chancel arch in the church of s. cross (holywell) dates from the end of the eleventh century, and this church was probably founded about this time by robert d'oigli or his successors for the benefit of the growing population on holywell manor. the present church of s. clement, on the marston road, near the new magdalen and trinity cricket grounds, is an early victorian imitation of norman style, and well described as the "boiled rabbit." the castle tower, the tower of s. michael's, the crypt of s. peter's in the east, holywell and the castle mill, the chancel of s. cross, these are all landmarks that recall the days when d'oigli governed oxford, and the servants of william surveyed england and registered for him his new estate. but there is one other item in the domesday record which deserves to be noticed: "all burgesses of oxford hold in common a pasture without the wall which brings in s. d." how many oxford men realise, when they make their way to port meadow to sail their centre-boards on the upper river, that this ancient "port" (or "town") meadow is still set apart for its ancient purpose, that the rights of the freemen of oxford to have free pasture therein have been safeguarded for eight hundred years by the portreeve or shire-reeve (sheriff), annually appointed to fulfil this duty by the portmannimot (or town council)? robert d'oigli died childless. he was succeeded by his nephew, the second robert, who had wedded edith, a concubine of henry i. she, dwelling in the castle, was wont to walk in the direction of what is now the great western railway station and the cemetery, being attracted thither by the "chinking rivulets and shady groves." [illustration: entrance front pembroke college] and it is said that there one evening, "she saw a great company of pyes gathered together on a tree, making a hideous noise with their chattering, and seeming, as 'twere, to direct their chatterings to her." the experience was repeated, and the lady sent for her confessor, one radulphus, a canon of s. frideswide's, and asked him what the reason of their chattering might be. radulphus, "the wiliest pye of all," wood calls him, explained that "these were no pyes, but so many poor souls in purgatory that do beg and make all this complaint for succour and relief; and they do direct their clamours to you, hoping that by your charity you would bestow something both worthy of their relief, as also for the welfare of yours and your posterity's souls, as your husband's uncle did in founding the college and church of s. george." these words being finisht, she replied, "and is it so indeed? now de pardieux, if old robin my husband will concede to my request, i shall do my best endeavour to be a means to bring these wretched souls to rest." and her husband, as the result of her importunities, "founded the monastery of osney, near or upon the place where these pyes chattered ( ), dedicating it to s. mary, allotting it to be a receptacle of canon regulars of s. augustine, and made radulphus the first prior thereof." osney was rebuilt in . the legate proclaimed forty days' indulgence to anyone who should contribute towards the building of it. the result was one of the most magnificent abbeys in the country. "the fabric of the church," says wood, "was more than ordinary excelling." its two stately towers and exquisite windows moved the envy and admiration of englishmen and foreigners alike. when, in , oxford ceased to belong to the diocese of lincoln, and the new see was created, robert king, the last abbot of osney, was made first bishop of osney. but it was only for a few years that the bishop's stool was set up in the church of s. mary. in henry the viii. moved the see to s. frideswide's, and converted the priory, which wolsey had made a college, into both college and cathedral. and the abbey of osney was devoted to destruction. "sir," said dr johnson when he saw the ruins of that great foundation, stirred by the memory of its splendid cloister and spacious quadrangle as large as tom quad, its magnificent church, its schools and libraries, the oriel windows and high-pitched roofs of its water-side buildings, and the abbot's lodgings, spacious and fair, "sir! to look upon them fills me with indignation!" agas' map ( ) represents the abbey as still standing, but roofless; the fortifications in accounted for the greater part of what then remained. the mean surroundings of the railway station mark the site of the first cathedral of oxford. the cemetery chapel is on the site of the old nave. a few tiles and fragments of masonry, the foundations of the gateway and a piece of a building attached to the mill, are the only remains that will reward you for an unpleasant afternoon's exploration in this direction. better, instead of trying so to make these dead stones live, to go to the cathedral and there look at the window in the south choir aisle, which was buried during the civil war and, thus preserved from the destructive puritans, put up again at the restoration. this painted window, which is perhaps from the hand of the dutchman van ling ( ), represents bishop king in cope and mitre, and among the trees in the background is a picture of osney abbey already in ruins. the bishop's tomb, it should be added, of which a missing fragment has this year been discovered, lies in the bay between the south choir aisle and s. lucy's chapel. but there is one other survival of osney abbey of which you cannot long remain unaware. you will not have been many hours in the "sweet city of the dreaming spires" before you hear the "merry christ church bells" of dean aldrich's[ ] well-known catch ring out, or the cracked b flat of great tom, booming his hundred and one strokes, tolling the hundred students of the scholastic establishment and the one "outcomer" of the thurston foundation, and signalling at the same time to all "scholars to repair to their respective colleges and halls" and to all the colleges to close their gates ( . p.m.). and these bells, hautclerc, douce, clement, austin, marie, gabriel et john, as they are named in the hexameter, are the famous osney bells, which were held to be the finest in england in the days when bell-founding was a serious art and a solemn rite, when bells were baptized and anointed, exorcised and blessed by the bishop, so that they might have power to drive the devil out of the air, to calm tempests, to extinguish fire, and to recreate even the dead. they are hung within the bell-tower (above the hall-staircase of christ church), which mr bodley has built about the wooden structure which contains them, and which he intended to surmount with a lofty and intricate wooden superstructure. but tom is placed in his own tower, over the entrance from s. aldate's into the great quad to which he has given his name. the lower story of tom tower was built by wolsey (the faire gate it was called, and the cardinal's statue is over the gateway), but the octagonal cupola which gives to it its characteristic appearance was added by sir christopher wren. tom weighed , pounds, and bore the inscription:-- _in thomæ laude resono bim bom sine fraude_, but he was re-cast in ( ft. in. in diameter, and weighing over tons). the inscription records:-- _magnus thomas clusius oxoniensis renatus, ap. , ._ translated here, he has rung out, since the anniversary of the restoration on the th of may , nightly without intermission, save on that night some years ago when the undergraduates of christ church cut the rope as a protest when they were not allowed to attend the ball given at blenheim in honour of the coming of age of the duke of marlborough, and curfew did not ring that night. there is one other monument in oxford which is connected by popular tradition with the last abbot of osney, and that is the exceedingly picturesque old house[ ] in s. aldate's. richly and quaintly carved, this old timber mansion is known as the bishop's palace, and is said to have been the residence of bishop king, after the see was transferred from osney to christ church. [illustration: gables in st aldate's] the town, we have seen, had been ruined, and very many of the houses were "waste," when the normans conquered england. but in the new era of prosperity and security which their coming gave to the land, in the sudden development of industry and wealth which the rule of the conquerors fostered, oxford had her full share. the buildings of which remnants or records remain bear witness to the new order of things. such works as those which we have described could not then or now be done without money. the transformation of oxford at this period, from a town of wooden houses, in great part uninhabited, to a town of stone houses, with a castle and many churches of stone, is an indication of wealth. and that wealth was a product not only of the new régime of order and security, but also of the new policy of the foreign kings. the erection of stately castles and yet statelier abbeys which followed the conquest, says mr green, the rebuilding of almost every cathedral and conventual church, mark the advent of the jewish capitalist. from this time forward till the jew was protected in england and his commercial enterprise fostered. he was introduced and protected as a chattel of the king, and as such exempt from the common law and common taxation of englishmen. in oxford, as elsewhere, the jews lived apart, using their own language, their own religion and laws, their own peculiar commerce and peculiar dress. here the great and little jewries extended along fish street (s. old's) to the present great gate of christ church, and embraced a square of little streets, behind this line, which was isolated and exempt from the common responsibilities and obligations of the town. the church itself was powerless against the synagogue, which rose in haughty rivalry beside the cloister of s. frideswide. little wonder if the priory and jewry were soon at deadly feud. in we find prior phillip complaining of a certain deus-cum-crescat (gedaliah) son of mossey, who, presuming upon his exemption from the jurisdiction of any but the king, had dared to mock at the procession of s. frideswide. standing at his door as the procession of the saint passed by, the mocking jew halted and then walked firmly on his feet, showed his hands clenched as if with palsy and then flung open his fingers. then he claimed gifts and oblations from the crowd who flocked to s. frideswide's, on the ground that such recoveries of limb and strength were quite as real as any frideswide had wrought. but no earthly power, ecclesiastic or civil, ventured to meddle with deus-cum-crescat. the feud between jewry and priory lasted long. it culminated in in a daring act of fanaticism, which incidentally provides a curious proof of the strong protection which the jews enjoyed, and of the boldness with which they showed their contempt for the superstitions around them. as the customary procession of scholars and citizens was returning on ascension day from s. frideswide's, a jew suddenly burst from the group of his friends in front of the synagogue, and snatching the crucifix from its bearer, trod it underfoot. but even in presence of such an outrage, the terror of the crown shielded the jewry from any burst of popular indignation. the king condemned the jews of oxford to make a heavy silver crucifix for the university to carry in the processions, and to erect a cross of marble where the crime was committed; but even this punishment was in part remitted, and a less offensive place was allotted for the cross in an open plot by merton college. but the time of the jews had almost come. their wealth and growing insolence had fanned the flames of popular prejudice against them. protected by the kings whose policy it was to allow none to plunder them but their royal selves, they reaped a harvest greater than even the royal greed could reap.[ ] their position as chattels of the king, outside the power of clergy or barons, and as citizens of little towns within towns in whose life they took no part except to profit by it, stirred the jealousy of the various classes. wild stories were circulated then, as on the continent still, of children carried off to be circumcised or crucified. the sack of jewry after jewry was the sign of popular hatred and envy during the barons' war. soon the persecution of the law fell upon these unhappy people. statute after statute hemmed them in. they were forbidden to hold real property, to employ christian servants, and to move through the streets without two tell-tale white tablets of wool on their breasts. their trade, already crippled by the competition of bankers, was annihilated by the royal order which bade them renounce usury, under the pain of death. at last edward, eager to obtain funds for his struggle with scotland, yielded to the fanaticism of his subjects and bought the grant of a fifteenth from the clergy and laity at the price of driving the jews from his realm. from the time of edward to that of cromwell no jew touched english soil. there is no reason to suppose with many historians that the jews of oxford contributed through their books, seized at this time, to the cultivation of physical and medical science, or that it was through the books of the rabbis that roger bacon was enabled to penetrate to the older world of research. the traces which they have left in oxford, save in the indirect manner i have suggested, are not many. the rising ground, now almost levelled, between the castle and broken hayes, on the outer edge of the castle ditch on the north side, was long known as the mont de juis, but being the place of execution, the name may more likely be derived from justice than from jews. a more interesting reminiscence is provided by the physic garden opposite magdalen college. henry ii. had granted the jews the right of burial outside of every city in which they dwelt. at oxford their burial place was on the site where s. john's hospital was afterwards built, and was then transferred to the place where the physic garden now stands. this garden, the first land publicly set apart for the scientific study of plants, was founded by henry, earl of danby ( ), who gave the land for this purpose. mr john evelyn visiting it a few years later was shown the sensitive plant there for a great wonder. there also grew, he tells us, canes, olive trees, rhubarb, but no extraordinary curiosities, besides very good fruit. curious, however, the shapes of the clipped trees were, if we may believe tickell, who writes enthusiastically: "how sweet the landskip! where in living trees, here frowns a vegetable hercules; there famed achilles learns to live again and looks yet angry in the mimic scene; here artful birds, which blooming arbours shew, seem to fly higher whilst they upwards grow." the gateway was designed by inigo jones, and the figures of charles i. and ii. were added later, the expense being defrayed out of the fine levied upon anthony wood for his libel upon clarendon. about the same time that osney abbey was finished the palace which henry beauclerk had been building at beaumont, outside the north gate of the city, was finished also. to satisfy his love of hunting he had already ( ) constructed a palace and park at woodstock. within the stone walls of the enclosure there he nourished and maintained, says john rous, lions, leopards, strange spotted beasts, porcupines, camels, and such like animals, sent to him by divers outlandish lords. the old palace at beaumont lay to the north-east of worcester college. its site, chosen by the king "for the great pleasure of the seat and the sweetness and delectableness of the air," is indicated by beaumont street, a modern street which has revived the name of the palace on the hill,--bellus mons. when not occupied with his books or his menagerie, the scholar-king found time to grant charters to the town, and he let to the city the collective dues or fee-farm rent of the place. henry ii. held important councils at beaumont. the one romance of his life is connected with woodstock and godstow. one of the most charming of the many beautiful excursions by road or river from oxford takes you to the little village of godstow, "through those wide fields of breezy grass where black-winged swallows haunt the glittering thames." to sail here from folly bridge or the upper river, to fish here, to play bowls or skittles here, to eat strawberries and cream here, has for centuries been the delight of oxford students. "so on thy banks, too, isis, have i strayed a tasselled student, witness you who shared my morning walk, my ramble at high noon, my evening voyage, an unskilful sail, to godstow bound, or some inferior port, for strawberries and cream. what have we found in life's austerer hours delectable as the long day so loitered?" just opposite the picturesque old trout inn and the bridge which spans the river here you may see an old boundary wall, enclosing a paradise of ducks and geese, at one corner of which is a ruined chapel with a three-light perpendicular window. these are the only remaining fragments of the once flourishing nunnery, which was the last home of rosamund, rosa mundi, the rose of the world. during his residence at oxford, henry granted the growing city an important charter, confirming the liberties they had enjoyed under henry i., "and specially their guild merchant, with all liberties and customs, in lands and in goods, pastures and other accessories, so that any one who is not of the guildhall shall not traffic in city or suburbs, except as he was wont at the time of king henry, my grandfather. besides i have granted them to be quit of toll and passenger tax, and every custom through all england and normandy, by land, by water, by sea-coast, _by land and by strand_. and they are to have all other customs and liberties and laws of their own, which they have in common with my citizens of london. and that they serve me at my feast with those of my butlery, and do their traffic with them, within london and without, and everywhere." oxford then ( ) enjoyed customs and liberties in common with london; her charter was copied from that of the londoners, and on any doubtful matter she was bound to consult the parent town. she was soon provided with aldermen, bailiffs, and chamberlains, whose titles were borrowed from the merchant guild, and with councilmen who were elected from the citizens at large. the mayor was formally admitted to his office by the barons of the exchequer at westminster, and on his return thence, he was met always by the citizens in their liveries at trinity chapel, without eastgate, where he stayed to return thanks to god for his safe return, and left an alms upon the altar. the merchant guild was originally distinct from the municipal government, though finally the guildhall became the common hall of the city. in practice the chief members of the merchant guild would usually be also the chief members of the court-leet. the business of the merchant guild was to regulate trade. its relation to the craft guilds is analogous to that which exists between the university and the colleges. the crafts, to which, as to the freedom of the city, men obtained admission by birth, apprenticeship, or purchase, were numerous, flourishing and highly organised. every trade from cordwainers to cooks, from tailors, weavers, and glovers to butchers and bakers, was a brotherhood, with arms and a warden, beadle, and steward of its own, and an annually elected headmaster. the various guilds had special chapels in the different churches where they burnt candles and celebrated mass, on particular days. the glovers held mass on trinity monday in all saints' church; the tailors in the same church, and they also founded a chantrey in s. martin's. "a token of this foundation is a pair of tailor's shears painted in the upper south window of the south aisle" (wood). the cooks celebrated their chief holiday in whitsun week, when they showed themselves in their bravery on horseback. the tailors had their shops in wincheles row, and they had a custom of revelling on the vigil of s. john the baptist. "caressing themselves with all joviality in meats and drinks they would in the midst of the night dance and take a circuit throughout all the streets, accompanied by divers musical instruments, and using some certain sonnets in praise of their profession and patron." but such customs led to disturbances and were finally prohibited. the barbers, a company which existed till fifty years ago, maintained a light in our lady's chapel at s. frideswide's. some of the regulations by which they bound themselves when they were incorporated by order of the chancellor in are typical. the barbers, it should be added, were the mediæval physicians too. their ordinances provided that no person of that craft should work on a sunday or shave any but such as were to preach or do a religious act on sundays. no servant or man of the craft should reveal any infirmity or secret disease he had to his customers or patients. a master of the craft was to be chosen every year, to whom every one of his craft should be obedient during his year of office. every apprentice that was to set up shop after his time was expired should first give the master and wardens with the rest of the society a dinner and pay for one pound of wax, and that being done, the said master and wardens with three other seniors of the craft should bring him to the chancellor upon their shoulders, before whom he was to take his oath to keep all the ordinations and statutes of the craft, and pay to our lady's box eightpence and the like sum to the chancellor. the same procedure must be observed by any foreigner that had not been prenticed in oxford but desired to set up a shop to occupy as barber, surgeon, or waferer or maker of singing bread. all such as were of the craft were to receive at least sixpence a quarter of each customer that desired to be shaved every week in his chamber or house. if any member of the craft should take upon him to teach any person not an apprentice, he should pay s. d., whereof s. d. should go to the craft, s. d. to the chancellor, and s. d. to the proctors. rules are also given for the observance of the barbers' annual holiday and the election of their master. stimulated by the presence of the kings without its walls and the growth of the university within, trade flourished so greatly that it was soon necessary to regulate it by minute provisions. in the reign of edward ii. ( ) the mayor and bailiffs were commanded to "prevent confusion in the merchandising of strangers, and those who were not free of any guild from thrusting out those who were." all traders and sellers who came to oxford on market days--wednesdays and saturdays--were to know each one their places. "the sellers of straw, with their horses and cattle that bring it," so ran the regulation, "shall stand between east gate and all saints' church, in the middle of the king's highway. the sellers of wood in carts shall stand between shidyard (oriel) street and the tenement of john maidstone and the tenement on the east side of the swan inn (now king edward's street, the ugly row of smug, commonplace houses which has been erected on the site of swan yard). the sellers of bark shall stand between s. thomas' hall (swan inn) and s. edward's lane (alfred street). the sellers of hogs and pigs shall stand between the churches of s. mary and all saints; the ale sellers between s. edward's lane and the chequer inn; the sellers of earthen-pots and coals by the said lane of s. edward on the north side of the high street. the sellers of gloves and whitawyers (dresses of white leather) shall stand between all saints' church and the house on the west side of the mitre inn; the furriers, linen and woollen drapers by the two-faced pump (which perhaps stood on the site of the later conduit at carfax. this conduit was erected in and water brought to it from the hill springs above north hincksey. it was removed in and presented to earl harcourt, who re-erected it at nuneham park some five miles from oxford, where it may still be seen, on a slope commanding an extensive view of the thames valley between abingdon and oxford.) "the bakers," the regulation continued, "shall stand between carfax and north gate, and behind them the foreign sellers of fish and those that are not free or of the guild. the tanners shall stand between somner's inn and carfax; the sellers of cheese, milk, eggs, beans, new peas and butter from the corner of carfax towards the bailly; the sellers of hay and grass at the pillory; the cornsellers between north gate and mauger hall (the cross inn)." besides these market-stands the permanent trades and resident guilds had distinct spheres allotted to them. the cutlers, drapers, cooks and cordwainers had their special districts; the goldsmiths had their shops in all saints' parish, the spicery and vintnery[ ] lay to the south of s. martin's; fish street extended to folly bridge, the corn market stretched away to north gate, the stalls of the butchers ranged in their butchers' row along the road to the castle (queen's street). as for the great guild of weavers, there was a wool market in holywell green. part of the ground since included in magdalen college grove was known as parry's mead, and here twenty-three looms were working at once, and barges came up to it on the cherwell. thus then oxford had attained to complete municipal self-government. she stood now in the first rank of municipalities. her political importance is indicated by the many great assemblies that were held there. the great assembly under cnut had closed the struggle between englishman and dane; that under stephen ended the conquest of the norman, whilst that under henry iii. begins the regular progress of constitutional liberty. in , simon de montfort issued writs from woodstock summoning the famous parliament to which towns sent members for the first time. oxford no doubt was among the number, but the sheriff's returns are lost and it is not till that the names of two burgesses elected to represent her in the national council are recorded. the university did not obtain members until the first parliament of james i. ( ), although her advice had often been consulted by kings and parliaments before.[ ] so far, then, we have followed the growth of a town of increasing political and commercial importance. we have now to trace the growth within its borders of a new and rival body, which was destined, after a century or more of faction and disorder, to humble her municipal freedom to the dust. chapter iii the origin of the university the chroniclers of every mediæval town like to begin from jove--or genesis. the oxford historians are no exception. famous antiquaries of ancient days carried back the date of the city to fabulous years. wood gives the year b.c. as the authentic date, when memphric, king of the britons, built it and called it caer memphric. but these famous antiquaries, as we shall see, had an axe to grind. whatever the origin of oxford may have been, a few bronze weapons and some pottery, preserved in the museum, are the only remains of the british period that have been discovered. great as were the natural advantages of the place, lying as it does on the banks of the chief river of the country at a point where a tributary opens up a district to the north, it would yet seem that there was no british settlement of importance at oxford, for it was dangerous borderland between the provinces into which britain was divided, liable to frequent hostile incursions, and therefore left uninhabited. and this would seem to be the reason why, when the road-making romans were driving their great streets through the neighbourhood, they left this seductive ford severely alone. the first chronicler to associate oxford with the name of king memphric was john rous, an imaginative historian, no respecter of facts, who died, full of years and inventions, in . hear him discourse in his fluent, pleasantly circumstantial style: "about this time samuel the servant of god was judge in judea, and king magdan had two sons, that is to say mempricius and malun. the younger of the two having been treacherously slain by the elder, the fratricide inherited the kingdom. in the twentieth year of his reign, he was surrounded by a large pack of very savage wolves, and being torn and devoured by them, ended his existence in a horrible manner. nothing good is related of him except that he begot an honest son and heir, ebrancus by name, and built one noble city which he called from his own name caer-memre, but which afterwards in course of time was called bellisitum, then caerbossa, at length ridohen, and last of all oxonia, or by the saxons oxenfordia, from a certain egress out of a neighbouring ford. there arose here in after years an universal and noble seat of learning, derived from the renowned university of grek-lade. "it is situated between the rivers thames and cherwell which meet there. the city, just as jerusalem, has to all appearance been changed; for as mount calvary, when christ was crucified, was just outside the walls of the city, and now is contained within the circuit of the walls, so also there is now a large level space outside oxford, contiguous to the walls of the town, which is called belmount, which means beautiful mount, and this in a certain way agrees with one of the older names of the city before named and recited; that is to say bellisitum; whence many are of opinion that the university from greklade was transferred to this very bellus mons or bellesitum before the coming of the saxons and while the britons ruled the island, and the church of s. giles, which was dedicated under the name of some other saint, was the place for the creation of graduates, as now is the church of s. mary, which is within the walls...." the origin of the city is, of course, not the same thing as the origin of the university, and john rous, it will be observed, has adopted the story according to which the university was said to have been transplanted to oxford from "grekelade." this story is found in its earliest form in the oxford _historiola_, the account of the university prefixed to the official registers of the chancellor and proctors. it was probably written towards the end of the reign of edward iii., somewhere in the third quarter of the fourteenth century. the sound of greek in the name cricklade is quite [illustration: the turret quad merton college] enough, in the minds of those who have studied mediæval chronicles--histories "farct with merry tales and frivolous poetry"--to account for the origin of the myth as to the greek philosophers. do you not find for instance, the name of lechelade suggesting latin schools (latinelade) at that place by an analogous etymological conceit? saith the _historiola_, then, after premising that the university is the most ancient, the most comprehensive, the most orthodox and the most richly endowed with privileges:-- "very ancient british histories imply the priority of its foundation, for it is related that amongst the warlike trojans, when with their leader brutus they triumphantly seized the island, then called albion, next britain, and lastly england, certain philosophers came and chose a suitable place of habitation upon this island, on which the philosophers who had been greek bestowed the name which they have left behind them as a record of their presence, and which exists to the present day, that is to say grekelade...." the grounds of the other statements quoted from john rous are yet more fanciful. the assertion that the university was transferred from without to within the city walls is a vague echo of a worthless story, and the name given to the town bellesitum is obviously a confusion arising from the latinised form of beaumont, the palace which henry i. built on the slope towards s. giles. the names of caer-bossa and ridochen (rhyd-y-chen) are equally unhistorical, and are based upon the fantastic welsh equivalents of oxenford, invented by the fertile genius of geoffrey of monmouth for the purposes of his romance (twelfth century). it would scarcely have been worth while to mention even so briefly the ingenious myths of the early chroniclers if it had not been for the fact that they have swamped more scientific history and that they were used with immense gusto by the champions in that extraordinary controversy which broke out in the days of elizabeth, and lasted, an inky warfare of wordy combatants, almost for centuries. it was a controversy in which innumerable authorities were quoted, and resort was had even to the desperate device of forgery. it arose from the boast of the cambridge orator, who on the occasion of a visit of elizabeth to cambridge, declared: "to our great glory all histories with one voice testify that the oxford university borrowed from cambridge its most learned men, who in its schools provided the earliest cradle of the _ingenuæ artes_, and that paris also and cologne were derived from our university." with that assertion the fat was in the fire. assertions were issued, and counter-assertions, commentaries and counter-commentaries. it is impossible to follow the course of the controversy here. suffice it to say that when the war had been waged for some years, it seemed evident that the victory would lie with the oxonians, who claimed alfred as their founder, if they could prove their claim. and the claim appeared to be proved by a passage attributed to asser, the contemporary historian of alfred's deeds, and surreptitiously inserted into his edition of that author by the great camden. but that passage occurs in none of the manuscripts of asser, and certainly not in the one which camden copied. it was probably adopted by him on the authority of an unscrupulous but interested partisan who, having invented it, attributed it to a "superior manuscript of asser." the university cannot, then, claim alfred the great either as her founder or restorer. all the known facts and indications point the other way. it was not till , some years after alfred's death, that edward the elder obtained possession of oxford, which was outside alfred's kingdom; asser knew nothing of this foundation. it was not till the days of edward iii., that ralph higden's _polychronicon_ apparently gave birth to the myth with the statement that alfred-- "by the counsel of s. neot the abbot, was the first to establish schools for the various arts at oxford; to which city he granted privileges of many kinds." and from that time the myth was repeated and grew. but if king alfred did not found the university who did? or how did it come into existence? briefly the case stands thus. before the second half of the twelfth century--the age of universities--there are no discoverable traces of such a thing at oxford, but in the last twenty years of that century references to it are frequent and decided. the university was evidently established, and its reputation was widely spread. there abounded there, contemporaries inform us, "men skilled in mystic eloquence, weighing the words of the law, bringing forth from their treasures things new and old." and the university was dubbed by the proud title "the second school of the church." she was second, that is, to paris, as a school of theology, and to paris, the researches of modern experts like dr rashdall lead us to believe, she owed her origin. the universities, the greatest and perhaps the most permanent of mediæval institutions, were a gradual and almost secret growth. for long centuries europe had been sunk in the gloom of the dark ages. the light of learning shone in the cloister alone, and there burned with but a dim and flickering flame. in spain not one priest in a thousand about the age of charlemagne could address a common letter of salutation to another. scarcely a single person could be found in rome who knew the first elements of letters; in england, alfred declared that he could not recollect one priest at the time of his accession who understood the ordinary prayers. learning lay buried in the grave of bede. at court, emperors could not write, and in the country contracts were made verbally for lack of notaries who could draw up charters. but towards the end of the eleventh century europe began to recover from this state of poverty and degradation. christendom had gained a new impulse from the crusades. trade revived and began to develop, some degree of tranquillity was restored, and the growing wealth of the world soon found expression in an increasing refinement of manners, in the sublime and beautiful buildings of the age of cathedrals, and in a greater ardour for intellectual pursuits. a new fervour of study arose in the west from its contact with the more cultured east. everywhere throughout europe great schools which bore the name of universities were established. the long mental inactivity of europe broke up like ice before a summer's sun. wandering teachers, such as lanfranc or anselm, crossed sea and land to spread the new power of knowledge. the same spirit of restlessness, of inquiry, of impatience with the older traditions of mankind, either local or intellectual, that had hurried half christendom to the tomb of its lord, crowded the roads with thousands of young scholars, hurrying to the chosen seats where teachers were gathered together. a new power, says an eloquent historian, had sprung up in the midst of a world as yet under the rule of sheer brute force. poor as they were, sometimes even of a servile race, the wandering scholars, who lectured in every cloister, were hailed as "masters" by the crowds at their feet. this title of "master" suggests, of course, the nomenclature of the guilds. a university, in fact, was a guild of study. the word implies[ ] a community of individuals bound together for any purpose, in this case for the purpose of teaching. it was applied to the whole body of students frequenting the "studium," and hence the term came to be used as synonymous with "studium" to denote the institution itself. the system of academical degrees dates from the second half of the twelfth century. after the manner of mediæval craftsmen in other trades, the profession of teaching was limited to those who had served an apprenticeship in a university or guild of study and were qualified as masters of their art. nobody was allowed to teach without a licence from such a guild, just as no butcher or tailor was allowed to ply his trade without having served his proper term and having been approved by the masters of his guild. a university degree, therefore, was originally simply a diploma of teaching, which afterwards came to be regarded as a title, when retained by men who had ceased to lecture or teach. "bachelor" was the term applied to students who had ceased to be pupils but had not yet become teachers. the word was generally used to denote an apprentice or aspirant to knighthood, but in the universities came to have this technical signification. the degree of bachelor was in fact an important step on the way to the higher degree of master or doctor. one of the first symptoms of the twelfth century renaissance may be traced in the revival in italy of the study of jurisprudence as derived from the laws of justinian. for early in the twelfth century a professor named irnerius opened a school of civil law at bologna, and lombardy was soon full of lawyers. teachers of that profitable art soon spread from bologna throughout europe, and their university was the first to receive from frederic barbarossa the privileges of legal incorporation. it presently became known as the special university of young archdeacons, whose mode of life gave rise to the favourite subject of debate "can an archdeacon be saved?" but it was the school of philosophy at paris which chiefly attracted the newly-kindled enthusiasm of the studious. the tradition of the schools of charlemagne may have lingered there, although no direct connection between them and the university which now sprang into being can be proved. as early as william of champeaux opened a school of logic, and it was to his brilliant and combative pupil, peter abelard, that the university owed its rapid advancement in the estimation of mankind. the multitude of disciples who flocked to his lectures, and listened with delight to his bold theories and his assertion of the rights of reason against authority, showed that a new spirit of enquiry and speculation was abroad. the poets and orators of antiquity were, indeed, beginning to be studied with genuine admiration, and the introduction into europe of some of the arabian writings on geometry and physics was opening the door to the development of mathematical science. but the flower of intellectual and scientific enquiry was destined to be nipped in the bud by the blighting influence of scholasticism. already among the pupils of abelard was numbered peter lombard, the future author of "the sentences," a system of the doctrines of the church, round which the dogmatic theology of the schoolmen, trammelled by a rigid network of dialectics, was to grow up. it was the light before a dawn which never broke into day. but as yet the period was one of awakening and promise. students from all parts crowded to paris, and the faculty[ ] of arts in the university was divided into four "nations"--those of france, picardy, normandy and england. john of salisbury became famous as one of the parisian teachers. becket wandered to paris from his school at merton. after spending twelve years at paris, john of salisbury, the central figure of english learning in his time, finally returned to england. s. bernard recommended him to archbishop theobald, and in the archbishop's household at canterbury he found in existence a very school of literature, where scholars like vacarius came to lecture on civil law, where lectures and disputations were regularly held, and men like becket and john of poictiers were trained. "in the house of my lord the archbishop," writes peter of blois, "are most scholarly men, with whom is found all the uprightness of justice, all the caution of providence, every form of learning. they after prayers and before meals, in reading, in disputing, in the decision of causes constantly exercise themselves. all the knotty questions of the realms are referred to us...." this archiepiscopal school was in fact a substitute for the as yet undeveloped universities. besides this school there were, in england, schools in connection with all the great cathedral establishments and with many of the monasteries as well as the houses of the nobles. there were, for instance, great schools at s. alban's and at oxford. but these _studia_ were not _studia generalia_; they were schools merely, not universities. it was perhaps to the school which had sprung up in connection with s. frideswide's monastery that vacarius lectured, if he lectured at oxford at all. it was in such a monastic school, in connection with s. frideswide's, osney, or s. george's in the castle, that robert pullen of paris lectured on the bible for five years ( ), and theobaldus stampensis taught. henry beauclerc endeavoured to retain the services of the former by offering him a bishopric, but he refused it and left england; stephen, on the other hand, bade vacarius cease from lecturing, since the new system of law, which he taught and which had converted the continent, was inconsistent with the old laws of the english realm. as to theobaldus stampensis, he styles himself magister oxenefordiæ, and letters from him exist which show that he, a norman ecclesiastic who had taught at caen, taught at oxford before . an anonymous reply to a tractate in which he attacked the monks, is responsible for the statement that this former doctor of caen had at oxford "sixty or a hundred clerks, more or less." but one school or one lecturer does not make a university. it has, however, been held, that just as the university of paris developed from the schools of notre dame, so the university of oxford grew out of the monastic schools of s. frideswide's. such a growth would have been natural. but if this had been the real origin of the university, it may be regarded as certain that the members of it would have been subjected to some such authority as that exercised by the chancellor of notre dame over the masters and scholars of paris. but at oxford, the masters and scholars were never under the jurisdiction of the prior or abbot of s. frideswide's or osney. if they had been, some trace or record of their struggle for emancipation must have survived. the chancellor, moreover, when he is first mentioned, proves to be elected by the masters and scholars and to derive his authority, not from any capitular or monastic body in oxford, but from the bishop of lincoln. and the university buildings themselves, in their primitive form, bear silent witness to the same fact, that the schools or studium in connection with which the university grew up were in no way connected with conventual churches and monasteries. for the schools were not near s. frideswide's but s. mary's. the independence of the oxford masters from any local ecclesiastical authority is a significant fact. combined with another it seems to admit of but one explanation. that other fact is the suddenness with which the reputation of oxford sprang up. before there is, as we have shown, no evidence of the existence of a _studium generale_ there, but there are indications enough that in the next few years students began to come, clerks from all parts of england. the account of the visit of giraldus cambrensis ( - ) reveals the existence of a studium on a large scale, with a number of masters and faculties. it is a studium generale by that time without a doubt. and in richard of devizes speaks of the clerks of oxford as so numerous that the city could hardly feed them. what, then, is the explanation of this so sudden development? probably it lies in a migration of scholars to oxford at this time. the migratory habits of mediæval masters and scholars are familiar to everyone who has the smallest acquaintance with the history of the universities. the universities of leipzig, reggio, vicenza, vercelli, and padua, for instance, were founded by migrations from one university or another. the story of oxford itself will furnish instances in plenty of the readiness of the university to threaten to migrate and, when hard pressed, to fulfil their threat. migrations to cambridge, stamford, and northampton are among the undoubted facts of our history. such a migration then would be in the natural course of things, though it would not satisfy the pride of the inventors of the alfred myth. but a migration of this kind did not take place without a cause. a cause however is not to seek. at this very period the quarrel of henry ii. with thomas a becket was the occasion for a migration from paris, the ordinary seat of higher education for english ecclesiastics. a letter from john of salisbury to peter the writer in contains this remark: "france, the most polite and civilised of all nations, has expelled the foreign students from her borders." this, as dr rashdall suggests, may possibly have been a measure of hostility aimed by the french king against the oppressor of holy church and against the english ecclesiastics, who as a body sided with their king against their not yet canonised primate. henry ii., on the other hand, took the same measures to punish the partisans of becket. all clerks were forbidden to go to or from the continent without leave of the king, and all clerks who possessed revenues in england were summoned to return to england within three months, "as they love their revenues." this would produce an exodus from paris. a large number of english masters and scholars must have been compelled to return home. according to the usual procedure of mediæval students they were likely to collect in some one town and set up under their old masters something of their old organisation. these ordinances were promulgated between the years and . the ports were strictly watched in order to enforce this edict. the migrating scholars would land at dover and lodge, perhaps, for a night or two at the benedictine priory there, before going on to canterbury. here, if they had been so minded, they might have stayed, and swelled the great literary circle, with its teachers and libraries, which had been formed there. but they left gervase at canterbury to write his history, and nigel to compose his verses and polish his satires. passing northwards, they might, had they come a little later, have been absorbed at lambeth, and the scheme of archbishop baldwin for setting up a college there, which should be a centre of ecclesiastical learning, emancipated from monastic restrictions, might then have been realised. or, if they had wished to attach themselves to any existing establishment, the monastic schools of st alban's might have welcomed them. but they chose otherwise. it may be that their experience of paris led them to choose a place which was neither a capital nor a see-town. at any rate the peculiar position of oxford, which was neither of these and yet an important commercial and political centre, made it admirably suited for the free development of a university, unharassed by bishops and unmolested by lord mayors. at oxford, too, was the palace of the king, and henry ii. was a champion of literary culture by his very descent. his grandfather had earned the title of henry beauclerk, the scholar king; and fulk the good, who had told king lothar that an unlearned king is a crowned ass, was a lineal ancestor of his. and apart from his own hereditary tastes, the position of henry as the most powerful king of the west, and the international correspondence which that position involved, tended to make the court a centre of literary activity. learning was sought not for itself only, but as a part of the equipment of a man of the world. for whatever reason, whether they were influenced by a desire, springing from experience of paris, to establish themselves where they might be most independent, or by the physical advantages of oxford, or the hope of favour from the king who had recalled them, and who at his court and about his palace of beaumont had gathered round him all that was enlightened and refined in english and norman society, or whether they were directed by mere chance, settling for a session and staying for centuries, it was to oxford they came. here ready to receive them they would find a town which stood in the front rank of municipalities, commanding the river valley along which the commerce of southern england mainly flowed. the mitred abbey of austin canons, the priory of s. frideswide, the castle of the d'oiglis, and the royal palace without the vallum marked the ecclesiastical and political importance of the place; the settlement of one of the wealthiest of the english jewries in the very heart of the town indicated, as it promoted, the activity of its trade. it was still surrounded on all sides by a wild forest country. the moors of cowley and bullingdon fringed the course of the thames; the great woods of shotover and bagley closed the horizon on south and east. but oxford was easy of access, for there were the great roads that crossed at carfax and there was the thoroughfare of the thames. and facility of communication meant regularity of supplies, a matter of great importance to a floating population of poor students. here, then, the migrating masters and scholars set up their schools, and within a very short time the reputation of the university was established throughout the length and breadth of the land. giraldus cambrensis, a welshman, who had achieved fame as a lecturer at paris, has given us an interesting account of his visit to oxford in . he came there with the purpose of reading aloud portions of his new work, as herodotus read his history at the panathenaic festival at athens or at the national games of greece. giraldus had written a book on ireland--topographia--and he chose this method of publishing and advertising it. he writes of himself in the third person, without any excessive modesty. you might almost think he was a modern author, asking his critics to dinner and writing his own "press notices." "in course of time, when the work was finished and revised, not wishing to hide his candle under a bushel, but wishing to place it in a candlestick so that it might give light, he resolved to read it before a vast audience at oxford, where the clergy in england chiefly flourished and excelled in clerkly lore. and as there were three distinctions or divisions in the work, and each division occupied a day, the readings lasted three successive days. on the first day he received and entertained at his lodgings all the poor people of the whole town; on the second all the doctors of the different faculties, and such of their pupils as were of fame and note; on the third the rest of the scholars with the milites of the town, and many burghers. it was a costly and noble act, for the authentic and ancient times of the poets were thus in some measure renewed; and neither present nor past time can furnish any record of such a solemnity having ever taken place in england." it is evident from this passage that the schools at oxford were by this time of considerable note and size. there was a university here now in fact if not in name or by charter. a few years later the records reveal to us the first known student in it. he was a clerk from hungary named nicholas, to whom richard i. who had been born in the palace of beaumont, made an allowance of half a mark weekly for his support during his stay at oxford for the purpose of study. thus, then, by the beginning of the reign of king john, we may be sure that there was established at oxford a university, or place of general study, and this university had attracted to itself an academic population, which was estimated by contemporaries at no less than three thousand souls. and now, just as the country won its great charter of liberties from that oppressive and intolerable angevin monarch, so documentary evidence of the independent powers of the university was first obtained, as the result of a series of events, in which the citizens of oxford had been encouraged to commit an act of unjust revenge by their reliance on john's quarrel with the pope and the clergy. the pope had laid the whole country under an interdict; the people were forbidden to worship their god and the priests to administer the sacraments; the church-bells were silent and the dead lay unburied on the ground. the king retaliated by confiscating the land of the clergy who observed the interdict, by subjecting them in spite of their privileges to the royal courts, and often by leaving outrages on them unpunished. "let him go," he said, when a welshman was brought before him for the murder of a priest, "he has killed my enemy." such were the political conditions, when at oxford a woman of the town was found murdered in circumstances which pointed to the guilt of a student. the citizens were eager for vengeance, and they took the matter into their own hands ( ). the offender had fled, but the mayor and burgesses invading his hostel arrested two innocent students who lodged in the same house. they hurried them outside the walls of oxford, and, with the ready assent of john, who was then at woodstock, hung them forthwith. this was a defiance of ecclesiastical liberty. for it was a chief principle of the church that all clerks and scholars, as well as all higher officials in the hierarchy, should be subject to ecclesiastical jurisdiction alone. for this principle becket had died, and in defence of this principle a quarrel now arose between the university and the town which bade fair to end in the withdrawal of the former altogether from oxford. in protest the masters and scholars migrated from the town, and transferred their schools to paris, to reading and to cambridge. it is, indeed, to this migration that the studium generale on the banks of the cam may owe its existence. the halls of oxford were now deserted, the schools were empty. so they remained as long as john's quarrel with the pope endured. but when the king had knelt before the papal legate, pandulf ( ), and sworn fealty to the pope, the church succeeded in bringing the citizens, who had no doubt found their pockets severely affected in the meantime, to their senses. a legatine ordinance of the following year is the university's first charter of privilege. the citizens performed public penance; stripped and barefooted they went daily to the churches, carrying scourges in their hands and chaunting penitential psalms. when they had thus obtained absolution, and the university had returned, the legate issued a decree by which the townsmen were bound in future, if they arrested a clerk, to deliver him up on demand to the bishop of lincoln, the archdeacon of oxford or his official, to the chancellor set over the scholars by the bishop, or some other authorised representative of the episcopal power. and thus was established that immunity from lay jurisdiction which, under slightly different conditions, is still enjoyed by every resident member of the university. this is the first allusion in any authentic document to the existence of the chancellorship. among the minor penalities to which the townsmen were now subjected was the provision that for ten years one-half the rent of existing hostels and schools was to be altogether remitted, and for ten years more rents were to remain as already taxed before the secession by the joint authority of the town and the masters. further, the town was forever to pay an annual sum of fifty-two shillings to be distributed among poor scholars on the feast of s. nicholas, the patron of scholars, and at the same time to feast a hundred poor scholars on bread and beer, pottage and flesh or fish. victuals were to be sold at a reasonable rate, and an oath to the observance of these provisions was to be taken by fifty of the chief burgesses, and to be annually renewed at the discretion of the bishop. the payment of the fine was transferred by an agreement with the town to the abbey of eynsham in , and by an ordinance of bishop grossetete the money was applied to the foundation of a "chest." the size and importance of the university was shortly afterwards increased by a somewhat similar disturbance which took place in paris ( ). a brawl developed into a serious riot, in which several scholars, innocent or otherwise, were killed by the provost of paris and his archers. the masters and students failing to obtain redress departed from paris in anger. henry seized this opportunity of humiliating the french monarchy by fomenting the quarrel and at the same time inviting "the masters and the university of scholars at paris" to come to study in england, where they should receive ample liberty and privileges. a migration to oxford was the result of this royal invitation, which was highly appreciated not only by the english students at paris but also by many foreigners. two years later the king was able to boast that oxford was frequented by a vast number of students, coming from various places over the sea, as well as from all parts of britain. the university remained till well towards the end of the thirteenth century a customary rather than a legal or statutory corporation. and in its customs it was a reproduction of the society of masters at paris. the privileges and customs of paris were, in fact, the type from which the customs and privileges of all the universities which were now being founded in europe were reproduced, and according to which they were confirmed by bulls and charters. thus in innocent v. enjoined grossetete to see that in oxford nobody exercised the office of teaching except after he had qualified according to the custom of the parisians. whilst then the idea of a university was undoubtedly borrowed from the continent, and oxford, so far as her organisation was concerned, was framed on the continental models, yet the establishment of a university in england was an event of no small importance. teaching was thereby centralised, competition promoted, and intellectual speculation stimulated. at a university there was more chance of intellectual freedom than in a monastic school. if such was the origin of the university, alfred did not found it, still less did he found university college. university college, "the hall of the university," may undoubtedly claim with justice to be the earliest university endowment. but it was at one time convenient to that college, in the course of a lawsuit in which their case was a losing one, to claim, when forgeries failed them, to be a royal foundation. the alfred myth was to hand, and they used it with unblushing effrontery and a confident disregard of historical facts and dates. their impudence for the time being fulfilled its purpose, and it also left its mark on the minds of men. the tradition still lingers. the college chapel was dedicated at the end of the fourteenth century to s. cuthbert, durham's saint, but the seventeenth-century bidding prayer still perpetuates the venerable fiction, and first among the benefactors of the "college of the great hall of the university," the name of king alfred is cited. in the college even celebrated, by the english method of a dinner, the supposed thousandth anniversary of its existence. at that dinner the chancellor of the exchequer, robert lowe (lord sherbrooke), wittily upheld the tradition of his college. for, he argued, if oxford was in the hands of the danes at the time when alfred founded the university, that fact only strengthened their case. for king alfred was a man so much in advance of his age that it is not surprising to find that he had anticipated the modern political doctrine, which teaches us that the surest way to earn popularity, is to give away the property of our opponents. [illustration: university college] the story of the lawsuit will be found to be instructive if discreditable. in the college by two purchases obtained possession of considerable property in land and houses which had been the estate of philip gonwardy and joan his wife. after the college had been in possession some fourteen years, however, a certain edmund francis and idonea his wife came forward to dispute the right to it. they maintained that philip gonwardy and his wife had had no true title to the estate, for it, or part of it, had been bequeathed to them by one john goldsmith in . and he, they asserted, had by a later document settled the same property upon them. the case was tried at westminster; transferred to oxford, where the college obtained a verdict in their favour, and then taken back on appeal to westminster. it was at this point that the document known as the french petition--it is written in the court french of the day--was filed. finding, apparently, that the case was going against them, the college determined to use the myth about alfred, claim to be a royal foundation and thus throw the matter, and their liberties along with it, into the king's hands, leaving the case to be decided by the privy council. "to their most excellent and most dread and most sovereign lord the king," so ran the petition, "and to his most sage council, shew his poor orators, the master and scholars of his college, called mickle university hall in oxenford, which college was first founded by your noble progenitor, king alfred, whom may god assoil, for the maintenance of twenty-six divines for ever; that whereas one edmund francis, citizen of london, hath in virtue of his great power commenced a suit in the king's bench, against some of the tenants of the said masters and scholars, for certain lands and tenements, with which the college was endowed ... and from time to time doth endeavour to destroy and utterly disinherit your said college of the rest of its endowment.... that it may please your most sovereign and gracious lord king, since you are our true founder and advocate, to make the aforesaid parties appear before your very sage council, to show in evidences upon the rights of the aforesaid matter, so that upon account of the poverty of your said orators your said college be not disinherited, having regard, most gracious lord, that the noble saints, john of beverley, bede, and richard armacan (fitzralph, archbishop of armagh), and many other famous doctors and clerks, were formerly scholars in your said college, and commenced divines therein, and this for god's sake, and as a deed of charity." this deed, then, and others, these mere children in litigation did deliberately forge, attaching the chancellor's seal thereto, in order to substantiate their absurd, but profitable, pretension. the device was successful for a time, although the very petition contains within itself glaring historical contradictions, which either show supreme ignorance on the part of the masters and scholars or a cynical assumption of the historical ignorance of lawyers. if the college was founded by king alfred who came to the throne in , it would seem a little unwise to instance as famous scholars of that foundation "noble saints" like john of beverley, who was archbishop of york in , and the venerable bede who died in . as to the real founder of university college all the evidence points to william, archdeacon of durham, who is mentioned as one of the five distinguished english scholars who left paris in , in consequence of the riots between the townsfolk and the university. henry's invitation to the paris masters to come and settle at oxford was immediately accepted by the other four. their example was probably soon followed by william, after a sojourn at angers. he was appointed rector of wearmouth, and is said to have "abounded in great revenues, but was gaping after greater." some litigation with the bishop of durham led him to appeal to the papal court. his appeal was successful, but it availed him little, for on his journey home he died at rouen ( ). his bones are said by skelton to lie in the chapel of the virgin in the cathedral there. he left marks in trust to the university to invest for the benefit and support of a certain number of masters. it was actually the first endowment of its kind, but it is to alan basset, who died about , that the credit of providing the first permanent endowment for an oxford scholar is due. for he conceived the idea of combining a scholarship with a chantry. he left instructions in his will in accordance with which his executors arranged with the convent of bicester for the payment of eight marks a year to two chaplains, who should say mass daily for the souls of the founder and his wife, and at the same time study in the schools of oxford or elsewhere. this was a step in the direction of founding a college, and indeed the original plan of william was hardly more imposing. the university placed durham's money in a "chest," and used it partly on their own business and partly in loans to others, barons in the barons' war for instance. such loans were seldom repaid, and only marks remained. this sum was expended in purchasing houses. the first house bought ( ) by the university was at the corner of school street and st mildred's lane (_tenementum angulare in vico scholarum_). the site of this the first property held by the university for educational purposes[ ] is now included in the front, the noisy, over-decorated front, of brasenose college. it was called, naturally enough, first the hall of the university and afterwards the little hall of the university. a second purchase was made in , when a tenement called drogheda hall, the then first house in the high street on the north side, was bought. it stands almost opposite to the present western gate of the college. brasenose hall was the next purchase under william's bequest ( ), and ( ) a quit rent of fifteen shillings, charged on two houses in s. peter's parish, was the last. william of durham had not founded a college. there is nothing to show that the purchase of houses by the university was originally made with any other object than that of securing a sound investment of the trust money. there is nothing to show, that is, either that the houses were bought originally and specifically as habitations for the pensioned masters (though they _may_ have lodged there), or that it was originally intended, either by the university or the founder, that they should form a community. statutes were not granted to the masters admitted to the benefits of this foundation until the year , and by that time a precedent had been created. from the year , then, may be dated the incorporation of what is now known as university college. a very small society of poor masters were, according to the revised plan, to live together on the bounty of william of durham and devote themselves to the study of theology. and this idea of association was evidently adopted from the rule for merton hall laid down by merton six years before. the revenue from the fund increased rapidly, so that by , the society was increased from "four poor masters" to one consisting of two classes of scholars, the seniors receiving six and eightpence a year more than the juniors, and having authority over them. other clerks of good character, not on the foundation, were permitted to hire lodgings in the hall, prototypes of the modern commoner. funds and benefactions accrued to the hall. a library was built, and the society gradually enlarged. members of it were enjoined to live like saints and to speak latin. in the election of new fellows a preference was given to those "born nearest to the parts of durham." and a graduated fine was imposed, according to which a scholar who insulted another in private was to pay a shilling, before his fellows two shillings, and if in the street, in church or recreation ground, six and eightpence. for the administration of the college funds a bursar was annually appointed, whose accounts were subsequently approved and signed by the chancellor. this practice of university supervision was maintained till . yet another body of statutes was promulgated in . the study of theology and the preference given to those who hailed from durham were emphasised in accordance with the founder's wishes. the senior fellow was required to be ordained, but any fellow who was appointed to a benefice of five marks a year now forfeited his election. this latter regulation, which occurs in substance in most of the fourteenth century foundations--by the statutes of queens, indeed, a fellow who refused a benefice forfeited his fellowship--shows that fellowships were intended not as mere endowments of learning but as stepping-stones to preferment. it does not, on the other hand, show that the founders did not contemplate the existence of life-fellows. i think that it is tolerably clear walter de merton did. the office of master of the college grew out of the position of the senior fellow; his authority was asserted by new statutes given in . it was in that the scholars of william of durham moved from the corner house on the north side of the high street, if that was where they abode, to the site of their present college, bounded by logic lane and grove street, and forming in the southern curve of the high street, one of the most effective and noble features in that splendid sweep which embraces, on the other side, queen's, all souls', st mary's, brasenose, and all saints'. the society had received large benefactions from a generous donor, philip ingleberd of beverley, and they now purchased spicer's (formerly durham's) hall, the first house in st mary's parish, which stood near the present western gateway of university college. further benefactions made further purchases possible. white hall and rose hall in kybald street were bought, and lodelowe hall, on the east of spicer's hall ( ). spicer's hall soon came to be known as the university hall; the hall next to it, when acquired, was distinguished as great university hall. the reversion to the remainder of the high street frontage, between lodelowe hall and the present logic lane, was not secured till , when the munificence of walter skirlaw, bishop of durham, enabled the society to extend their property and their numbers. the tenements thus acquired were called little university hall and the cock on the hoop. the next purchase of the college involved them in that lawsuit which has had so curious a result upon the imaginations of its subsequent members. thus, then, the foundation of william had become a college, "the first daughter of alma mater." being the first "hall" acquired by the university it came to be spoken of as "the hall of the university," and the members of the foundation, as "scholars of university hall." their proper title, "scholars of the hall of william of durham," gradually fell out of use. strangers to the university system usually find themselves confused by the relations of the university and the colleges. the university, then, let it be said, is a corporation existing apart from the colleges; the colleges are separate incorporated foundations, independent though practically subordinate to it. the old thatched halls of wood and clay were used till it became necessary to rebuild in . a smaller version of the seventeenth century quadrangle then constructed was finished in . for in had died dr john radcliffe, a famous and witty doctor, whose skill had secured him the post of court physician and whose wit had deprived him of it. for he offended william iii. by remarking to that dropsical monarch, that he would not have his two legs for his two kingdoms. it had long been known that the worthy doctor intended to make his college and his university his heirs. his munificence was rewarded by a public funeral of unexampled splendour and a grave in the nave of st mary's. the bulk of his fortune he devoted to specific purposes benefiting the university, but he left a large sum to university college "for the [illustration: radcliffe library from brasenose quad.] building of the front down to logic lane, answerable to the front already built, and for building the master's lodging therein, and chambers for his two travelling fellows," whom he endowed. the radcliffe quadrangle commemorates his benefaction to his college; the radcliffe infirmary (woodstock road, ), the radcliffe observatory, built - , on a site given by george, duke of marlborough; and last, but not least the radcliffe library, or as it is more usually termed the camera bodleiana (james gibbs, architect, - ) stand forth in the city as the noble monuments of his intelligent munificence. the magnificent dome of the latter forms one of the most striking features among oxford buildings.[ ] * * * * * neither the university of oxford nor university college can justly claim to be connected with the name of alfred the great. but there are relics of alfred and alfred's time preserved at oxford which should be of interest to the visitor. in the bodleian may be seen certain coins which have led historians to assume that alfred set up a mint at oxford, and to argue from this supposed fact that his rule was firmly established over mercia. the coins in question, which were all found in lancashire, are variations of the type bearing these letters;-- _obverse._ orsna, then in another line elfred, and in the third line forda. _reverse_ bernv + + + aldnº it is assumed that these words indicate that bernwald was a moneyer who was authorised by alfred to strike coins at oxford. but why oxford should be written orsnaforda and why, instead of the usual practice of abbreviation, the name of the place of the mint should have been written wrongly and at excessive length is not explained. i do not think there is any sufficient reason to connect the orsnaforda coins with oxford at all. whether alfred's sceptre held sway over mercia so that it can be stated definitely that "wessex and mercia were now united as wessex and kent had long been united by their allegiance to the same ruler" (green) or not, the fact is not to be deduced from an imaginary mint at oxford, any more than from the forged documents in the archives of university college or from the presence of what is known as king alfred's jewel in the university galleries, (beaumont street). this beautiful specimen of gold enamelled work was found in somersetshire in and added to the ashmolean collections a little later. the inscription "aelfred mee heht gevvrcan" (alfred ordered me to be made) which it bears has earned it its title. * * * * * the promotion of edmund rich, the abingdon lad who was first made an archbishop and then a saint, to the degree of master of arts, is the earliest mention of that degree in oxford. the story of his life there gives the best illustration we have of the early years and growth of the university. in the ardour of knowledge and the passionate purity of youth he vowed himself to a life of study and chastity. in the spirit of mystical piety which was ever characteristic of him, secretly as a boy he took mary for his bride. perhaps at eventide, when the shadows were gathering in the church of s. mary and the crowd of teachers and students were breaking up from the rough schools which stood near the western doors of the church in the cemetery without, he approached the image of the virgin and slipped on mary's finger a gold ring. on that ring was engraved "that sweet ave with which the angel at the annunciation had hailed the virgin." devout and studious, the future saint was not without boyish tastes. he paid more attention to the music and singing at s. mary's, we are told, than to the prayers. on one occasion he was slipping out of the church before the service was finished in order to join the other students at their games. but at the north door a divine apparition bade him return, and from that time his devotion grew more fervent. it is recorded with astonishment by his biographers as a mark of his singular piety, that when he had taken his degree as master he would attend mass each day before lecturing, contrary to the custom of the scholars of that time, and although he was not yet in orders. for this purpose he built a chapel to the virgin in the parish where he then lived. his example was followed by his pupils. "so study," such was the maxim he loved to impress upon them, "as if you were to live for ever; so live as if you were to die to-morrow." how little the young scholar, to whom oxford owes her first introduction to the logic of aristotle, cared for the things of this world is shown by his contemptuous treatment of the fees which the students paid to the most popular of their teachers. he would throw down the money on the window-sill, and there burying it in the dust which had accumulated, "dust to dust, ashes to ashes," he would cry, celebrating its obsequies. and there the fee would lie till a student in joke or earnest theft ran off with it. so for six years he lectured in arts. but even knowledge brought its troubles. the old testament, which with the copy of the decretals long formed his sole library, frowned down upon a love of secular learning, from which edmund found it hard to wean himself. the call came at last. he was lecturing one day in mathematics, when the form of his dead mother appeared to him. "my son," she seemed to say, "what art thou studying? what are these strange diagrams over which thou porest so intently?" she seized edmund's right hand, and in the palm drew three circles, within which she wrote the names of the father, son and the holy ghost. "be these thy diagrams henceforth, my son," she cried. and so directed, the student devoted himself henceforth to theology. this story, green observes, admirably illustrates the latent opposition between the spirit of the university and the spirit of the church. the feudal and ecclesiastical order of the old mediæval world were both alike threatened by the new training. feudalism rested on local isolation. the university was a protest against this isolation of man from man. what the church and empire had both aimed at and both failed in, the knitting of christian nations together into a vast commonwealth, the universities of the time actually did. on the other hand, the spirit of intellectual inquiry promoted by the universities, ecclesiastical bodies though they were, threatened the supremacy of the church. the sudden expansion of the field of education diminished the importance of those purely ecclesiastical and theological studies, which had hitherto absorbed the whole intellectual energies of mankind. for, according to the monastic ideal, theology was confined to mere interpretation of the text of scripture and the dicta of the fathers or church. to this narrow science all the sciences were the handmaids. they were regarded as permissible only so far as they contributed to this end. but the great outburst of intellectual enthusiasm in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries created a momentary revolution in these matters. the whole range of science as revealed by the newly discovered treasures of greek thinkers and roman jurists was now thrown open to the student. and this faint revival of physical science, this temporary restoration of classical literature, a re-discovery as it were of an older and a greater world, and contact with a larger, freer life, whether in mind, in society or politics, introduced a spirit of scepticism, of doubt, of denial, into the realms of unquestionable belief. but the church was alive to the danger. fiercely she fought [illustration: garden front s john's college] the tide of opposition, and at last won back the allegiance of the universities. through the schoolmen ecclesiasticism once more triumphed, and the reign of theology was resumed. soon scholasticism absorbed the whole mental energy of the student world. the old enthusiasm for knowledge died down; science was discredited, and literature in its purer forms became extinct. the scholastic philosophy, so famous for several ages, has passed away and been forgotten. we cannot deny that roscelin, anselm, abelard, peter lombard, albertus magnus, thomas aquinas, duns scotus and ockham were men of acute and even profound understanding, the giants of their own generation. but all their inquiries after truth were vitiated by two insurmountable obstacles--the authority of aristotle and the authority of the church. for aristotle, whom the scholastics did not understand, and who had been so long held at bay as the most dangerous foe of mediæval faith, whom none but anti-christ could comprehend, was now turned, by the adoption of his logical method in the discussion and definition of theological dogma, into its unexpected ally. it was this very method which led to that "unprofitable subtlety and curiosity" which lord bacon notes as the vice of the scholastic philosophy. yet the scholastic mode of dispute, admitting of no termination and producing no conviction, was sure in the end to cause scepticism, just as the triviality of the questions on which the schoolmen wasted their amazing ingenuity was sure at last to produce disgust. what could be more trifling than a disquisition about the nature of angels, their means of conversing, and the morning and evening states of their understanding, unless perhaps it were a subtle and learned dispute as to whether a chimæra, buzzing in a vacuum, can devour second intentions? john of salisbury observed of the parisian dialecticians in his own time, that after several years absence he found them not a step advanced, and still employed in urging and parrying the same arguments. his observation was applicable to the succeeding centuries. after three or four hundred years the scholastics had not untied a single knot or added one equivocal truth to the domain of philosophy. then men discovered at last that they had given their time for the promise of wisdom, and had been cheated in the bargain. at the revival of letters the pretended science had few advocates left, save among the prejudiced or ignorant adherents of established systems. and yet, in the history of education and of the historical events which education directs, the discussions of the schoolmen hold a place not altogether contemptible. their disputes did at least teach men to discuss and to define, to reason and to inquire. and thus was promoted the critical spirit which was boldly to challenge the rights of the pope, and to receive and profit by the great disclosures of knowledge in a future age. of the early schools and the buildings which sprang into existence to mark the first beginnings of the university, no trace remains. the church of s. giles in north oxford, which, as we have seen, is the church claimed by rous as the s. mary's of his imaginary university in beaumont fields, is the only architectural illustration of this period. it was consecrated by s. hugh, the great bishop of lincoln, and is of interest as affording one of the earliest examples of lancet work in england ( - ?). the high placed windows in the north wall of the nave are norman; the tower is in the transition style. chapter iv the coming of the friars scarcely had the university established itself in oxford, when an immigration into that city took place, which was destined to have no inconsiderable influence on its history. bands of men began to arrive and to settle there, members of new orders vowed to poverty and ignorance, whose luxury in after years was to prove a scandal, and whose learning was to control the whole development of thought. in the thirteenth century the power of the priesthood over christendom was at its height, but it was losing its religious hold over the people. the whole energy of the church seemed to be absorbed in politics; spiritually the disuse of preaching, the decline of the monastic orders into rich landowners, the non-residence and ignorance of parish priests combined to rob her of her proper influence. grossetete issued ordinances which exhorted the clergy, but in vain, not to haunt taverns, gamble or share in drinking bouts, and in the rioting and debauchery of the barons. it was in these circumstances that dominic and francis, men so strangely different in other ways, were moved to found orders of new brethren, who should meet false sanctity by real sanctity; preaching friars who should subsist on the alms of the poor and carry the gospel to them. the older monasticism was reversed; the solitary of the cloister was exchanged for the preacher, the monk for the friar. everywhere the itinerant preachers, whose fervid appeal, coarse wit and familiar stories brought religion into the market-place, were met with an outburst of enthusiasm. on their first coming to oxford, the dominicans or black friars were received with no less enthusiasm than elsewhere. lands were given to them in jewry; buildings and a large school were erected for them by benefactors like walter malclerk, bishop of carlisle, and isabel de boulbec, countess of oxford, or the friendly canons of st frideswide. so greatly did they flourish that they soon outgrew their accommodation. they sold their land and buildings, and with the proceeds built themselves a house and schools and church "on a pleasant isle in the south suburbs," which was granted them by henry iii. ( ). the site of their new habitation at the end of speedwell street (preachers' lane) is indicated by the blackfriars road and blackfriars street in the parish of st ebbe. their library was large and full of books; the church was dedicated to s. nicholas. it was situated near preachers' bridge, which spanned the trill mill stream. the grey friars followed hard on the heels of the black. for in the year nine franciscans arrived at dover. five of them went to canterbury, four to london, whence two of them made their way to oxford--richard of ingeworth and richard of devon. their journey was eventful. night drew on as they approached oxford. the waters were high and they were fain to seek shelter in a grange belonging to the monks of abingdon "in a most vast and solitary wood" (culham?). "humbly knocking at the door, they desired the monks for god's love to give them entertainment for that night. the porter who came to the door looked upon them (having dirty faces, ragged vestments, and uncouth speech) to be a couple of jesters or counterfeits. the prior caused them to be brought in that they might quaff it and show sport to the monks. but the friars said they were mistaken in them; for they were not such kind of people, but the servants of god, and the professors of an apostolic life. whereupon the expectation of the monks being thus frustrated, they vilely spurned at them and caused them to be thrust out of the gate. but one of the young monks had compassion on them and said to the porter: 'i desire thee for the love thou bearest me that when the prior and monks are gone to rest thou wouldest conduct those poor people into the hayloft, and there i shall administer to them food.' which being according to his desire performed, he carried to them bread and drink, and remaining some time with them, bade them at length a good night, and devoutly commended himself to their prayers. "no sooner had he left them, solacing their raging stomachs with refreshment, but he retired to his rest. but no sooner had sleep seized on him, than he had a dreadful dream which troubled him much. he saw in his sleep christ sitting upon his throne calling all to judgment; at length with a terrible voice he said: 'let the patrons of this place be called to me.' when they and their monks appeared, came a despised poor man in the habit of a minor friar, and stood opposite them saying to christ these words: 'o just judge, the blood of the minor friars cryeth to thee, which was the last night by those monks standing there endangered to be spilt; for they, when they were in great fear of perishing by the fury of hunger and wild beasts, did deny them lodging and sustenance--those, o lord, who have leaved all for thy sake and are come hither to win souls for which thou dying hast redeemed--have denied that which they would not to jesters.' these words being delivered, christ with a dreadful voice said to the prior: 'of what order art thou?' he answered that he was of the order of s. benedict. then christ, turning to s. benedict said, 'is it true that he speaks?' s. benedict answered, 'lord, he and his companions are overthrowers of my religion, for i have given charge in my rule that the abbot's table should be free for guests, and now these have denied those things that were but necessary for them.' then christ, upon this complaint, commanded that the prior before mentioned should immediately be hanged on the elm-tree before the cloister. afterwards the sacrist and cellarer being examined did undergo the same death also. these things being done, christ turned himself to the young monk that had compassion on the said friars, asking him of what order he was. who thereupon, making a pause and considering how his brethren were handled, said at length, 'i am of the order that this poor man is.' then christ said to the poor man, whose name was as yet concealed, 'francis, is it true that he saith, that he is of your order?' francis answered, 'he is mine, o lord, he is mine; and from henceforth i receive him as one of my order.' at which very time as those words were speaking, francis embraced the young monk so close that, being thereupon awakened from his sleep, he suddenly rose up as an amazed man; and running with his garments loose about him to the prior to tell him all the passages of his dream found him in his chamber almost suffocated in his sleep. to whom crying out with fear, and finding no answer from him, ran to the other monks, whom also he found in the same case. afterwards the said young monk thought to have gone to the friars in the hayloft; but they fearing the prior should discover them, had departed thence very early. then speeding to the abbot of abingdon, told him all whatsoever had happened. which story possessing him for a long time after with no small horror, as the aforesaid dream did the said young monk, did both (i am sure the last) with great humility and condescension come afterwards to oxon, when the said friars had got a mansion there, and took upon them the habit of s. francis." this quaint story of the first coming of the grey friars to oxford illustrates very plainly the hostility between the old orders of the friars and the new; the opposition of the parochial priesthood to the spiritual energy of the mendicant preachers, who, clad in their coarse frock of grey serge, with a girdle of rope round their waist, wandered barefooted as missionaries over asia, battled with heresies in italy and gaul, lectured in the universities and preached and toiled among the poor. the grey friars were hospitably received by the black, till richard le mercer, a wealthy burgess, let them a house in st ebbe's parish, "between the church and water-gate (south-gate), in which many honest bachelors and noble persons entered and lived with them." perhaps it was this increase in their numbers which compelled them to leave their first abode somewhere by the east end of beef lane, and to hire a house with ground attached from richard the miller. this house lay between the wall and freren street (church street). all sorts and conditions of men flocked to hear them. being well satisfied, it is said, as to their honest and simple carriage and well-meaning as also with their doctrine, they began to load them with gifts and to make donations to the city for their use. one of their benefactors, agnes, the wife of guy, for instance, gave them "most part of that ground which was afterwards called paradise" (_cf._ paradise square). a small church was built, and bishops and abbots relinquishing their dignities and preferments became minorites. they scorned not "the roughness of the penance and the robe," but "did with incomparable humility carry upon their shoulders the coul and the hod, for the speedier finishing this structure." the site chosen by the grey friars for their settlement is not without significance. the work of the friars was physical as well as moral. rapid increase of the population huddled within the narrow circle of the walls had resulted here as elsewhere in overcrowding, which accentuated the insanitary conditions of life. a gutter running down the centre of unpaved streets was supposed to drain the mess of the town as well as the slops thrown from the windows of the houses. garbage of all sorts collected and rotted there. within the houses the rush-strewn floors collected a foul heritage of scraps and droppings. personal uncleanliness, encouraged by the ascetic prohibitions and directions of a morbid monasticism, which, revolting from the luxury of the roman baths and much believing in the necessity of mortifying the flesh, regarded washing as a vice and held that a dirty shirt might cover a multitude of sins, was accentuated by errors of diet, and had become the habit of high and low. little wonder that fever or plague, or the more terrible scourge of leprosy, festered in the wretched hovels of the suburbs of oxford as of every town. well, it was to haunts such as these that s. francis had pointed his disciples. at london they settled in the shambles of newgate; at oxford they chose the swampy suburb of s. ebbe's. huts of mud and timber, as mean as the huts around them, rose within the rough fence and ditch that bounded the friary; for the order of st francis fought hard, at first, against the desire for fine buildings and the craving for knowledge which were the natural tendencies of many of the brethren. in neither case did the will of their founder finally carry the day. "three things," said friar albert, minister general, "tended to the exaltation of the order--bare feet, coarse garments, and the rejecting of money." at first the oxford franciscans were zealous in all those respects. we hear of adam marsh refusing bags of gold that were sent him; we hear of two of the brethren returning from a chapter held at oxford at christmas-time, singing as they picked their way along the rugged path, over the frozen mud and rigid snow, whilst the blood lay in the track of their naked feet, without their being conscious of it. even from the robbers and murderers who infested the woods near oxford the barefoot friars were safe. but it was not long before they began to fall away from "the rule," and to accumulate both wealth and learning. under the ministry of agnellus and his successor the tendency to acquire property was rigorously suppressed, but under haymo of faversham ( ) a different spirit began to prevail. haymo preferred that "the friars should have ample areas and should cultivate them, that they might have the fruits of the earth at home, rather than beg them from others." and under his successor they gained a large increase of territory. by a deed dated nov. , , henry iii. granted them "that they might enclose the street that lies under the wall from the watergate in s. ebbe's to the little postern in the wall towards the castle, but so that a wall with battlements, like to the rest of the wall of oxford, be made about the dwelling, beginning at the west side of watergate, and reaching southward to the bank of the thames, and extending along the bank westward as far as the land of the abbot of bec in the parish of s. bodhoc, and then turning again to the northward till it joins with the old wall of the borough, by the east side of the small postern." in he made a further grant. "we have given the friars minor our island in the thames, which we bought of henry, son of henry simeon, granting them power to build a bridge over the arm of the thames (trill stream) which runs between the island and their houses, and enclose the island with a wall." when it was completed, then, the convent of the grey friars could compare favourably with any convent or college in oxford, except perhaps s. frideswide's or osney. on the east side of it, where the main entrance lay, at the junction of the present littlegate street and charles street, was the road leading from watergate to preacher's bridge; on the south side, trill mill stream; on the west, the groves and gardens of paradise; on the north, as far as west-gate, ran the city wall. "their buildings were stately and magnificent; their church large and decent; and their refectory, cloister and libraries all proportionable thereunto." the traditional site of this church is indicated by church place as it is called to-day. the cloisters probably lay to the south of the church, round "penson's gardens." as the franciscans fell away by degrees from the ideal of poverty, so also they succumbed to the desire of knowledge. "i am your breviary, i am your breviary," s. francis had cried to a novice who had asked for a psalter. the true doctors, he held, were those who with the meekness of wisdom show forth good works for the edification of their neighbours. but the very popularity of their preaching drove his disciples to the study of theology. their desire not only to obtain converts but also to gain a hold on the thought of the age had led the friars to fasten on the universities. the same purpose soon led them to establish at oxford a centre of learning and teaching. their first school at oxford was built by agnellus of pisa, and there he persuaded robert grossetete, the great reforming bishop of lincoln, to lecture. agnellus himself was a true follower of s. francis and no great scholar. "he never smelt of an academy or scarce tasted of humane learning." he was indeed much concerned at the results of grossetete's lectures. for one day when he entered this school to see what progress his scholars were making in literature, he found them disputing eagerly and making enquiries whether there was a god. the scandalised provincial cried out aloud in anger, "hei mihi! hei mihi! fratres! simplices coelos penetrant, et literati disputant utrum sit deus!" the miracles which were afterwards reputed to be performed at the grave of this same excellent friar caused the church of the grey friars to be much frequented. the friars now began to accumulate books and we soon find mention of two libraries belonging to them. the nucleus of them was formed by the books and writings of grossetete, which he bequeathed to the brethren. and they collected with great industry from abroad greek, hebrew and mathematical writings, at that time unknown in england. the fate of this priceless collection of books was enough to make wood "burst out with grief." for, when the monasteries had begun to decay, and the monks had fallen into ways of sloth and ignorance and were become "no better than a gang of lazy, fat-headed friars," they began to sell their books for what they would fetch and allowed the remainder to rot in neglect. meanwhile the teaching of such scholars as grossetete and adam marsh (de marisco), the first of the order to lecture at oxford, was not without result. from the school of the franciscans came forth men who earned for the university great fame throughout europe. friars were sent thither to study, not only from scotland and ireland, but from france and acquitaine, italy, spain, portugal, and germany; while many of the franciscan schools on the continent drew their teachers from oxford. duns scotus and william ockham were trained by these teachers; roger bacon, the founder of modern scientific enquiry, ended his days as one of the order. his life, which stretched over the greater portion of the thirteenth century, was passed for the most part at oxford; his aspirations and difficulties, his failures and achievements form an epitome, as it were, of the mental history of his age. it was only when he had spent forty years and all his fortune in teaching and scientific research that, having gained the usual reward of scholarship, and being bankrupt in purse, bankrupt in hope, he took the advice of grossetete, and became a friar of the order of s. francis. "unheard, buried and forgotten," as a member of an order which looked askance on all intellectual labour not theological, he was forbidden to publish any work under pain of forfeiture, and the penance of bread and water. even when he was commanded by the pope to write, the friars were so much afraid of the purport of his researches that they kept him in solitude on bread and water, and would not allow him to have access even to the few books and writings available in those days. science, they maintained, had already reached its perfection; the world enjoyed too much light; why should he trouble himself about matters of which enough was known already? for as an enquirer bacon was as solitary as that lone sentinel of science, the tuscan artist in valdarno. from the moment that the friars settled on the universities, scholasticism had absorbed the whole mental energy of the student world. theology found her only efficient rivals in practical studies such as medicine and law. yet, in spite of all difficulties and hindrances, so superhuman was bacon's energy, and so undaunted his courage, that within fifteen months the three great works, the opus majus, the opus minus, and the opus tertium were written. if this had been true of the opus majus alone, and if that work had not been remarkable for the boldness and originality of its views, yet as a mere feat of industry and application it would have stood almost if not quite unparalleled. for the opus majus was at once the encyclopædia and the novum organum of the thirteenth century. of the opus minus the only ms. of the work yet known is a fragment preserved in the bodleian library (digby, no. ). the amazing friar met with no reward for his labours. according to one story, indeed, his writings only gained for him a prison from his order. his works were sold, allowed to rot, or nailed to the desks that they might do no harm. for bacon's method of study exposed him to the charge of magic. it was said that he was in alliance with the evil one, and the tradition arose that through spiritual agency he made a brazen head and imparted to it the gift of speech, and that these magical operations were wrought by him while he was a student at brazen nose hall. necromancy, you see, _was_ practised by the more daring students, for was there not a certain clerk in billyng hall who, when he had summoned the devil into his presence by his art, observed with astonishment that he did reverence when a priest carrying the sacrament passed without. "thereupon the student was much disturbed and came to the conclusion that god was much the greater and that christ should be his lord...." and later, was not dr thomas allen of gloucester hall, the astrologer and mathematician to whom bodley left his second best gown and cloak--a common sort of bequest in those days--suspected by reason of his figuring and conjuring, so that his servitor found a ready audience when, wishing to impose upon freshmen and simple people, he used to say that sometimes he would meet the spirits coming up his master's stairs like bees? apart from the tradition of the brazen nose, bacon's long residence in oxford left other marks on the nomenclature of the place. wood tells us that in his day a fragment of the ruined friary was pointed out as the room where the great wizard had been wont to pursue his studies. and at a later time tradition said that friar bacon was wont to use as an observatory the story built over the semi-circular archway of the gate on the south bridge, and it was therefore known as friar bacon's study. the little "gate-house" must have resembled bocardo. it was leased to a citizen named welcome, who added a story to it, which earned it the name of "welcome's folly." so the bridge came to be called folly bridge, and though gate and house have disappeared, the new bridge still retains the name. [illustration: gables in worcester college] the black and the grey friars were followed to oxford some years later by the white or carmelite friars. nicholas de meules or molis, sometime governor of the castle, gave them a house on the west side of stockwell street,[ ] now part of worcester college. they would seem, like the other orders, soon to have forgotten their traditional austerity. lands accrued to them; they erected suitable buildings with planted groves and walks upon a large and pleasant site. but not content with this, they presently obtained from edward ii. the royal palace of beaumont. thus they presented the curious paradox of an order of monks who derived their pedigree in regular succession from elijah, and trod in theory in the footsteps of the prophets who had retired into the desert, living at oxford in the palace of a king. "when king edward i. waged war with the scots ( ) he took with him out of england a carmelite friar, named robert baston, accounted in his time the most famous poet of this nation, purposely that he should write poetically of his victories. again, when king edward ii. maintained the same war after the death of his father, he entertained the same baston for the same purpose. at length the said king encountering robert bruce, was forced with his bishops to fly. in which flight baston telling the king that if he would call upon the mother of god for mercy he should find favour, he did so accordingly, with a promise then made to her that if he should get from the hands of his enemies and find safety, he would erect some house in england to receive the poor carmelites.... soon after, baston and some others were not wanting to persuade him to give to the carmelites his palace at oxford" ( ), where richard coeur de lion had been born. beaumont palace, whilst it remained in the hands of the carmelites, was used not merely as a convent for the habitation of twenty-four monks, but also as a place of education for members of this order throughout england; as well as for seculars who lived there as "commoners." cardinal pole is said to have been educated in this seminary. the library and the church of the white friars were unusually fine. the austin friars (or friars eremite of s. augustine) came also to oxford and gradually acquired property and settled "without smith gate, having holywell street on the south side of it and the chief part of the ground on which wadham college now stands on the north." the austin friars were famous for their disputations in grammar, and soon drew to themselves much of the grammatical training of the place. they engaged also in violent philosophical controversies with the other orders, so that at last they were even threatened with excommunication if they did not desist from their quarrelling. it was in their convent that the weekly general disputations of bachelors, known for centuries after as "austins," were held. [illustration: wadham college, from the gardens] in the penitentiarian friars or brothers of the sack, so called because they wore sackcloth, obtained from henry iii. a grant of land which formed the parish of s. budoc and lay to the west of the property of the franciscans. the order was soon afterwards suppressed and the franciscans acquired their house and lands. the brethren of the holy trinity also made a settlement in oxford ( ). their house, afterwards known as trinity hall, was situated outside the east gate (opposite magdalen hall). they also acquired the old trinity chapel adjoining and the surrounding land. the trinitarians had, besides, a chapel within the east gate, which was purchased by wykeham to make room for new college. the crossed or cruched friars, after one or two moves, settled themselves in the parish of s. peter's in the east. the older religious orders were presently stimulated by the example and the success of the friars to make some provision for the education of their monks. but they never aimed at producing great scholars or learned theologians. historians of their order and canonists who could transact their legal business were the products which the monastic houses desired. a chapter-general held at abingdon in imposed a tax on the revenues of all the benedictine monasteries in the province of canterbury with a view to establishing a house at oxford where students of their order might live and study together. john giffard, lord of brimsfield, helped them to achieve their object. gloucester hall, adjoining the palace of beaumont, had been the private house of gilbert clare, earl of gloucester, who built it in the year . it passed to sir john giffard, who instituted it a "nursery and mansion-place solely for the benedictines of s. peter's abbey at gloucester." the buildings were afterwards enlarged to provide room for student-monks from other benedictine abbeys. of the lodgings thus erected by the various abbeys for their novices, indications may still be traced in the old monastic buildings which form the picturesque south side of the large quadrangle of worcester college. for over the doorways of these hostels the half-defaced arms of different monasteries, the griffin of malmesbury or the cross of norwich, still denote their original purpose. [illustration: gateway, worcester gardens] at the dissolution, the college was for a short while made the residence of the first bishop of oxford. after his death it was purchased by sir thomas white, and by him converted into a hall for the use of his college of s. john. gloucester hall, now become s. john baptist hall, after a chequered career, was refounded and endowed in as worcester college out of the benefaction of sir thomas cookes. in the latter half of the eighteenth century the hall, library and chapel were built and the beautiful gardens of "botany bay" were acquired. the benedictines also held durham hall, on the site of the present trinity college, having secured a property of about ten acres with a frontage of about feet (including kettell hall) on broad street, and feet on the "kingis hye waye of bewmounte." it was here that richard de bury, bishop of durham, founded the first public library in oxford. bury had studied at oxford and was the tutor of edward iii.; statesman and churchman, he was above all gateway in garden of worcester college things a book-lover. he had more books, it is recorded, than all the other bishops put together and, wherever he was residing, so many books lay about his bed-chamber that it was hardly possible to stand or move without treading upon them. in the _philobiblon_ the bishop describes his means and methods of collecting books. in the course of his visitations he dug into the disused treasures of the monasteries, and his agents scoured the continent for those "sacred vessels of learning." the collection of books so made he intended for the use of scholars, not merely for himself alone. "we have long cherished in our heart of hearts," he writes, "the fixed resolve to found in perpetual charity a hall in the reverend university of oxford, and to endow it with the necessary revenues, for the maintenance of a number of scholars; and, moreover, to enrich the hall with the treasures of our books, that all and every one of them should be in common as regards their use and study, not only to the scholars of the said hall, but by their means to all the students of the aforesaid university for ever." and he proceeds to lay down strict regulations based on those of the sorbonne, for the use and preservation of his beloved books and the catalogue he had made of them. richard of hoton, prior of durham monastery, had begun in the erection of a college building to receive the young brethren from that monastery, whom his predecessor, hugh of darlington, had already begun to send to oxford to be educated. this colony of durham students it was apparently richard de bury's intention to convert into a body corporate, consisting of a prior and twelve brethren. and in gratitude for the signal defeat of the scots at halidon hill, edward iii. took the proposed college under his special protection. bury, however, died, and died in debt, so that he himself never succeeded in founding the hall he intended. his successor, bishop hatfield, took up the scheme, and entered into an agreement with the prior and convent of durham for the joint endowment of a college for eight monks and eight secular scholars. this project was completed, by agreement with his executors, after his death ( ). but what became of the books of the bishop and bibliophile, richard de bury? some of them, indeed, his executors were obliged to sell, but we need not distrust the tradition which asserts that some of them at least did come to oxford. there, it is supposed, they remained till durham hall was dissolved by henry viii., when they were dispersed, some going to duke humphrey's library, others to balliol college, and the remainder passing into the hands of dr george owen, who purchased the site of the dissolved college. whatever happened to bury's books, it is certain that the room which still serves as a library was built in , and it may be taken to form, happily enough, the connecting link between the old monastic house and the modern trinity college. some fragments of the original "domus et clausura" may also survive in the old bursary and common room. the stimulating effect of the friars upon the old orders is shown also by the foundation of rewley abbey, of which the main entrance was once north-west of hythe bridge street. rewley (_locus regalis_ in north osney) was built for the cistercians. richard, earl of cornwall, brother of henry iii., who like the king had often been at oxford, directed in his will that a foundation should be endowed for three secular priests to pray for his soul. his son edmund, however, founded an abbey of regulars instead, cistercian monks from thame. he gave sixteen acres to the west of the abbey for walks and for private use. to represent the twenty-one monks of the foundation, twenty-one elm-trees were planted within the gates, and at the upper end a tree by itself to represent the abbot. it was to this abbey, then, that the cistercian monks came up to study, till archbishop chichele founded s. bernard's for them ( ). the college which chichele founded for the bernardines, the "black" cistercians who followed the reformed rule of s. bernard, was built on the east side of s. giles', "after the same [illustration: oriel college] mode and fashion for matters of workmanship as his college of all souls." it is the modern college of s. john baptist. but a large part of the buildings date from chichele's foundation, and the statue of s. bernard still stands in its original niche to recall to the modern student the bernardines whom he has succeeded. the abbey was dissolved by henry viii., who gave the site to the cathedral of christ church. the ruins were still standing in wood's day, "seated within pleasant groves and environed with clear streams." only a fragment of a wall and doorway now remain. a memorial stone, purchased from the site of rewley by hearne the antiquarian for half a crown, is preserved in the ashmolean. it bears the name of ella longepée, the benevolent countess of warwick, "who made this chapel." in addition to the numerous parish churches and convents and colleges, there were now innumerable smaller religious foundations in oxford. there was the house of converts; there were several hospitals and hermitages and "ancherholds"--solitary little cells and cabins standing in the fields and adjoining abbeys or parish churches. [illustration: doorway, rewley abbey] the house of converts was founded by henry iii. ( ), and here "all jews and infidels converted to the christian faith were ordained to have sufficient maintenance." after the expulsion of the jews and when the number of converts began to fail, it was used as a hall for scholars and known as cary's inn. later it was the magnificent old inn, the blue boar, which spanned the old south boundary of little jewry, blue boar, bear or tresham lane. the whole of its site is occupied by the modern town hall. the hospital of s. bartholomew, which lay about half a mile to the east of the city, was founded by henry i. for leprous folk. it consisted of one master, two healthful brethren, six lepers and a clerk. the chapel and buildings were given in by edward iii. to oriel college. in the fourteenth century forty days' indulgence or pardon of sins was granted by the bishop of lincoln to all who would pay their devotions at the chapel of s. bartholomew, on the feast of that saint, and give of their charity to the leprous alms-folk. the result was that multitudes resorted there, and the priests and poor people benefited considerably. but after the reformation the custom died out. later, it was revived, for charitable reasons, by the fellows of new college. they changed the day to may-day, and then "after their grave and wonted manner, early in the morning, they used to walk towards this place. they entered the chapel, which was ready decked and adorned with the seasonable fruits of the year. a lesson was read, and then the fellows sung a hymn or anthem of five or six parts. thereafter one by one they went up to the altar where stood a certain vessel decked with tuttyes, and therein offered a piece of silver; which was afterwards divided among the poor men. after leaving the chapel by paths strewn with flowers, they in the open space, like the ancient druids, the apollinian offspring, echoed and warbled out from the shady arbours harmonious melody, consisting of several parts then most in fashion." and wood adds that "the youth of the city would come here every may-day with their lords and ladies, garlands, fifes, flutes, and drums, to acknowledge the coming in of the fruits of the year, or, as we may say, to salute the great goddess flora, and to attribute her all praise with dancing and music." the income of the hospital had previously been much augmented by the relics which it was fortunate enough to possess. s. edmund the confessor's comb, s. bartholomew's skin, as well as his much revered image, the bones of s. stephen and one of the ribs of s. andrew the apostle, all helped to draw to this shrine without the walls the worship and the offerings of the sick and the devout. it is difficult to realise with what reverential awe men regarded the jaw-bone of an ancient cenobite, the tooth or even the toe-nail of a saint or martyr. charms, in those days, were considered more efficacious than drugs, and the bones of saints were the favourite remedies prescribed by the monkish physicians. comb your hair with this comb of saint edmund, then, and you would surely be cured of frenzy or headache; apply the bones of s. stephen to your rheumatic joints, and your pains would disappear. so it was most firmly believed; and faith will remove mountains. there was a saint for every disease. to touch the keys of s. peter or to handle a relic of s. hubert was deemed an effectual mode of curing madness. s. clare, according to monkish leechcraft, cured sore eyes; s. sebastian the plague, and s. apollonia the toothache. the teeth of s. apollonia, by the way, were by a fortunate dispensation almost as numerous as the complaint which she took under her charge was common. it is said that henry vi., disgusted at the excess of this superstition, ordered all who possessed teeth of that illustrious saint to deliver them to an officer appointed to receive them. obedient crowds came to display their saintly treasures, and lo! a ton of the veritable teeth of s. apollonia were thus collected together. were her stomach, says fuller, proportionate to her teeth, a country would scarce afford her a meal. the relics at s. bartholomew's were so highly prized that oriel college thought it desirable to remove them to their church of s. mary--where more people might have the benefit of them. s. bartholomew's hospital was used as a common pest-house for the plague in , and shortly after was completely demolished. the chapel fared no better, for it was put to base uses by the parliamentarians, and the roof, which was of lead, was melted down to provide bullets for "the true church militant." the buildings and chapel were, however, restored by the patrons, oriel college. if you follow the cowley road towards cowley marsh, you will find on your left, opposite the college cricket grounds, and just short of the military college and barracks, a ruined building which is the old chapel of s. bartholomew, and contains the screen put up in the time of the commonwealth. the letters o. c., , mark it. they stand for oriel college, not oliver cromwell, we must suppose. there was a hospital in stockwell street, at the back of beaumont palace; there was a hospital of bethlehem at the north end of s. giles' church and alms-house place in holywell. of hermitages we may mention that known as s. nicholas chapel on the west side of south bridge. the hermits who lived there successively were called the hermits of grand pont. they passed their lives, we are told, in continual prayer and bodily labour--"in prayer against the vanities of the world, for poor pilgrims and passengers that steered their course that way, receiving of them something of benevolence for that purpose; in bodily labour by digging their own graves and filling them up again, as also in delving and making highways and bridges." "our lady in the wall" was the name of another hermitage near s. frideswide's grange, which was in great repute at one time for the entertainment of poor pilgrims who came to be cured by the waters of s. edmund's well (cowley place). the hospital of s. john baptist was founded some time before the end of the thirteenth century for the relief of poor scholars and other miserable persons. among the property granted or confirmed to it by henry iii. in a very liberal charter, was the mill known as king's mill at the headington end of the path now called mesopotamia, because it runs between the two branches of the river. as a site for rebuilding the hospital the brethren were given ( ) the jews' garden, outside the east gate of oxford, but it was provided that a space should be reserved for a burial-ground for the jews. this ground formed part of the present site of magdalen college, and part of the site of the physic garden, which lies on the other side of the high street, facing the modern entrance to that college. the latter site was that reserved for the jews' cemetery; the hospital buildings were erected on the other portion. when waynflete began to enlarge and remodel his foundation of magdalen hall ( ), he obtained a grant from the king whereby the hospital (which had ceased to fulfil its purpose) and its possessions were assigned to the president and fellows of the hall. two years later a commission was appointed by the pope, which confirmed the suppression of the hospital and its incorporation in the college which waynflete had been licensed to found, "whereby he proposed to change earthly things to heavenly, and things transitory to things eternal, by providing in place of the hospital a college of a president, secular scholars and other ministers for the service of god and the study of theology and philosophy; of whom some are to teach these sciences without fee at the cost of the college." of the buildings which were once part of the old hospital very little remains. in the line of the present college, facing the street, a blocked-up doorway to the west of the tower marks one of the entrances to the hospital. and wood was probably correct in saying that the college kitchen was also part of the original fabric. there is a little statue of a saint over a doorway inside the kitchen which appears to bear out this statement. * * * * * the various religious orders were, then, well represented at oxford. their influence on the university was considerable; their relations with it not always amicable. at first, doubtless, they did much to stimulate mental activity, whilst the friendship which grossetete, who as bishop of lincoln exercised a sort of paternal authority over the university, manifested towards his "faithful counsellor," adam marsh, and the franciscans in general, helped to reconcile their claims with the interests of the university. but the university was always inclined to be jealous of them; to regard them bitterly, and not without reason, as grasping bodies, who were never tired of seeking for peculiar favours and privileges and always ready to appeal to the pope on the least provocation. before long, indeed, it became evident that their object was to gain control of the university altogether. and this endeavour was met by a very strenuous and bitter campaign against them. for, as at paris, the friars soon outlived their welcome, and as at paris, it was deemed advisable to set a limit to the number of friar doctors and to secure the control of the university to the regular graduates.[ ] the friars who were sent up to oxford had usually completed their eight years' study of arts in the friars' schools, and were probably chosen for the promise they had shown in the course of their earlier studies. their academic studies were confined to the faculty of theology, in its wide mediæval sense, and of canon law, the hand-maid of theology. but though the regulars were for the most part subject to the same regulations as the secular students in these faculties, yet the orders were bound before long to find themselves in antagonism with the customs of the university. the rules of the preaching friars forbade them to take a degree in arts; the university required that the student of theology should have graduated in arts. the issue was definitely raised in , and became the occasion of a statute, providing that for the future no one should incept in theology unless he had previously ruled in arts in some university and read one book of the canon, or of the sentences, and publicly preached in the university. this statute was challenged some fifty years later by the dominicans, and gave rise to a bitter controversy which involved the mendicant orders in much odium. the dominicans appealed first to the king and then to the pope, but the award of the arbitrators appointed upheld the statute. the right of granting dispensations, however, or graces to incept in theology, to those who had not ruled in arts, was reserved to the chancellor and masters. a clause which prohibited the extortion of such "graces" by means of the letters of influential persons was inserted, but was not altogether effective. certain friars who had used letters of this kind are named in a proclamation of the year . "these are the names of the wax-doctors who seek to extort graces from the university by means of letters of lords sealed with wax, or because they run from hard study as wax runs from the face of fire. be it known that such wax-doctors are always of the mendicant orders, the cause whereof we have found; for by apples and drink, as the people fables, they draw boys to their religion, and do not instruct them after their profession, as their age demands, but let them wander about begging, and waste the time when they could learn in currying favour with lords and ladies." from an educational point of view no doubt the university was right in insisting on the preliminary training in arts. roger bacon speaks with contempt of the class that was springing up in his day--people who studied theology and nothing but theology, "and had never learnt anything of real value. ignorant of all parts and sciences of mundane philosophy, they venture on the study of philosophy which demands all human wisdom. so they have become masters in theology and philosophy before they were disciples." the tendency and the danger of our modern educational system is to specialise, not in theology but in science, without any proper previous training in the humanities. whilst the university was engaged in desperate combat with the friars in defence of its system, the regulars had succeeded in securing almost a monopoly of learning. the same fight and the same state of affairs prevailed at paris. and just as at paris in order to save the class of secular theologians from extinction, robert de sorbonne established his college ( ) for secular clerks, so now at oxford, walter de merton took the most momentous step in the history of our national education by founding a college for twenty students of theology or canon law, who not only were not friars or monks, but who forfeited their claims to his bounty if they entered any of the regular orders. and that his object was achieved the names of walter burley, the doctor perspicuus, thomas bradwardine, the profound doctor, and perhaps john wycliffe stand forth to prove. as an institution for the promotion of academical education under a collegiate discipline but secular guidance, the foundation of merton college was the expression of a conception entirely new in england. it deserves special consideration, for it became the model of all other collegiate foundations, and determined the future constitution of both the english universities. walter de merton was born at merton in surrey. he studied at oxford and won such high honour with the king that he was made chancellor of the kingdom. ranged on the side opposite to that of simon de montford, he was enabled perhaps by the very success of his opponent and the leisure that so came to him, to perfect the scheme which he had early begun to develop. at first he set aside his estates of malden, farleigh and chessington to support eight of his young kinsmen in study at the university. but in he made over his manor-house and estate of malden to a "house of scholars of merton," with the object of supporting twenty students preferably at oxford. the first statutes were granted in the following year. the scholars in whom the property of this house was vested were not allowed to reside within its walls for more than one week in the year, at the annual audit. the house was to be occupied by a warden and certain brethren or stewards. it was their business to [illustration: old gateway, merton college herbert railton oxford] administer the estate and pay their allowances to the scholars. the scholars themselves were all originally nephews of the founder. their number was to be filled up from the descendants of his parents, or failing them, other honest and capable young men, with a preference for the diocese of winchester. they were to study in some university where they were to hire a hall and live together as a community. it was in the very year of the secession to northampton that the statutes were issued, and it would have been obviously inexpedient to bind the students to one university or one town. the studium might be removed from oxford or the scholar might find it desirable to migrate from that university, to stamford, cambridge, or even paris. the founder, indeed, in view of such a possibility did acquire a house at cambridge for his college (pythagoras hall). the little community thus established at oxford was to live simply and frugally, without murmuring, satisfied with bread and beer, and with one course of flesh or fish a day. a second body of statutes given to the community in fixed their abode definitely at oxford and regulated their corporate life more in detail. a sub-warden was now appointed to preside over the students in oxford, as well as one to administer at malden. strict rules of discipline were laid down. at meals all scholars were to keep silence save one, who was to read aloud some edifying work. all noisy study was forbidden. if a student had need to talk, he must use latin. in every room one socius, older and wiser than the others, was to act as præpositus, control the manners and studies of the rest and report on them. to every twenty scholars a monitor was chosen to enforce discipline. one among so many was not found to suffice, and by the final statutes of merton one monitor to ten was appointed. thus originated the office of decanus (dean). a new class of poor students--"secondary scholars"--was also now provided for. they were to receive sixpence a week each from michaelmas to midsummer, and live with the rest at oxford. in these secondary scholars may be seen the germ of the distinction, so characteristic of english colleges, between the full members of the society, afterwards known as fellows or socii, and the scholars or temporary foundationers. socii originally meant those who boarded together in the same hall. it was the founder of queen's who first used the word to distinguish full members of the society from foundationers, who were still later distinguished as "scholares." wykeham followed his example, distinguishing the _verus et perpetuus socius_ from the probationer. and from these secondary scholars it is probable that a century later willyot derived his idea of the institution of a separate class of _portionistae_, the merton postmasters. they originally received a "stinted portion," compared with the scholars. merton became chancellor once more on the death of henry. he was practically regent of the kingdom till the return of edward from the crusades. as soon as he resigned the seals of office in , he set himself to revise the statutes of his college at oxford, before taking up his duties as bishop of rochester. the wardens, bailiffs and ministers of the altar were now transferred from malden to oxford, which was designated as the exclusive and permanent home of the scholars. the statutes now given remained in force till , and are, to quote the verdict of the late warden, "a marvellous repertory of minute and elaborate provisions governing every detail of college life. the number and allowances of the scholars; their studies, diet, costume, and discipline; the qualifications, election and functions of the warden; the distribution of powers among various college officers; the management of the college estates and the conduct of the college business are here regulated with remarkable sagacity. the policy which dictates and underlies them is easy to discern. fully appreciating the intellectual movement of his age, and unwilling to see the paramount control of it in the hands of the religious orders--the zealous apostles of papal supremacy--walter de merton resolved to establish within the precincts of the university a great seminary of secular clergy, which should educate a succession of men capable of doing good service in church and state. "the employment of his scholars was to be study--not the _claustralis religio_ of the older religious orders, nor the more practical and more popular self-devotion of the dominicans and franciscans. he forbade them ever to take vows; he enjoined them to maintain their corporate independence against foreign encroachments; he ordained that all should apply themselves to studying the liberal arts and philosophy before entering on a course of theology; and he provided special chaplains to relieve them of ritual and ceremonial duties. he contemplated and even encouraged their going forth into the great world. no ascetic obligations were laid on them, but residence and continual study were strictly prescribed, and if any scholar retired from the college with the intention of giving up study, or even ceased to study diligently, his salary was no longer to be paid. if the scale of these salaries and statutable allowances was humble, it was chiefly because the founder intended the number of scholars to be constantly increased as the revenues of the house might be enlarged." in this foundation walter de merton was the first to express the only true idea of a college. once expressed, it was followed by every succeeding founder. the collegiate system revolutionised university life in england. merton was never tired of insisting upon the one great claim which his community should have to the loyalty, affection and service of its members. it was this idea which has produced all that is good in the system. to individual study in the university schools was added common life; to private aims the idea of a common good. "the individual is called to other activities besides those of his own sole gain. diversities of thought and training, of taste, ability, strength and character, brought into daily contact, bound fast together by ties of common interest, give birth to sympathy, broaden thought, and force enquiry, that haply in the issue may be formed that reasoned conviction and knowledge, that power of independent thought, to produce which is the great primary aim of our english university education" (henderson). the founder, who had long been busy acquiring property in oxford, had impropriated the church of s. john the baptist for the benefit of the college, and several houses in its immediate neighbourhood were made over to the scholars. the site thus acquired ( - ) became their permanent home and was known henceforth as merton hall. of the buildings which were now erected and on which the eyes of the founder may have rested in pride and hope, little now remains. the antique stone carving over the college gate, the great north door of the vestibule of the hall, with its fantastic tracery of iron, perhaps the treasury and outer sacristy are relics of the earliest past. but chapel, hall, library and quadrangle are later than the founder. as if to emphasise the ecclesiastical character of the english college, he had begun at once to rebuild the parish church as a collegiate church. the high altar was dedicated in the year of his death, ; the rest of the chapel is of later dates. the choir belongs to the end of the thirteenth century ( ), (pure decorated); the transepts (early decorated, with later perpendicular windows and doors) were finished in , but begun perhaps as early as the choir; and the massive tower, with its soaring pinnacles, a fine specimen of perpendicular work, was completed in . it will be noticed that the chapel has no nave, but that, probably in imitation of william of wykeham's then recently finished naveless chapel at new college, the nave which had evidently been intended was omitted at merton (after ). two arches blocked with masonry in the western wall and the construction of the west window indicate this original intention of adding a nave. the old thirteenth century glass in the geometrical windows of the chancel is of great interest. the arms of castile and the portrait [illustration: oriel college] of elinor of castile (d. ) will be noticed. merton chapel is very rich both in glass and brasses. on entering the college you are struck at once by the fact that merton is not as other colleges arranged on a preconceived plan. but the irregular and disconnected arrangement of the buildings of the quadrangle are themselves suggestive of the fact that it was from merton and the plans of its founder that the college quadrangles may trace their origin; as it is from merton that they derive their constitution. the hall, the chapel, the libraries and the living rooms, as essentials for college life, were first adopted here, and these buildings were disposed in an unconnected manner about a quadrangular court after the fashion of the outer curia of a monastery. the regular disposition of college quadrangles was first completed by wykeham, and whilst other colleges have conformed to the perfected shape, merton remains in its very irregularity proudly the prototype, the mother of colleges. of the college buildings the most noteworthy is the library, the oldest example of the mediæval library in england. it was the gift of william rede, bishop of chichester ( ). the dormer and east windows and the ceiling are later, but the library as it is, though enriched by the improvements of succeeding centuries, beautiful plaster-work and panelling, noble glass and a sixteenth century ceiling, is not very different from that in which the mediæval student pored over the precious manuscripts chained to the rough sloping oaken desks which project from the bookcases. these bookcases stand out towards the centre of the room and form, with a reader's bench opposite to each of the narrow lancet windows, a series of reader's compartments. how the books were fastened and used in those days, you may gain a good idea by examining the half case numbered forty-five. it was in this library that the visitors of edward vi. took their revenge on the schoolmen and the popish commentators by destroying in their stupid fanaticism not only innumerable works of theology, but also of astronomy and mathematical science. "a cart-load," says thomas allen, an eye-witness, "of such books were sold or given away, if not burnt, for inconsiderable nothings." in this library anthony wood was employed in the congenial occupation of "setting the books to rights," and here is preserved, according to tradition, the very astrolabe which chaucer studied. and, for a fact, a beautiful copy of the first caxton edition of his works is stored in the sacristy--a building which up till was used as a brew-house. the charming inner quadrangle, in which the library is, rejoices in the name "mob" quad--a name of which the derivation has been lost. like the treasury, it probably dates from about . the high-pitched roof of the latter, made of solid blocks of ashlar, is one of the most remarkable features of merton. the outer sacristy is on the right of the main entrance passage to mob quad, and thence an old stone staircase leads to the treasury or muniment room. another passage from the front quadrangle leads to patey's quad. the fellows' quadrangle was begun in , and the large gateway with columns of the four orders (roman-doric, ionic, corinthian, and composite) is typical of the architectural taste of the times. the quadrangle itself, very similar to that of wadham, is one of the most beautiful and charming examples of late gothic imaginable. it would have been a fortunate thing if this had been the last building added to merton. but it was destined that the taste of the victorian era should be painfully illustrated by the new buildings which were erected in by mr butterfield. the architect was eager and the college not disinclined at that time to destroy part of the library and the mob quad. the abominable building which replaced the beautiful enclosure known as the grove, combines with the new buildings of christ church to spoil what might have been one of the most beautiful effects of water, wood and architecture in the world--the view of oxford from the christ church and broad walks. inspired by the example of merton and a similar dislike of monks and friars, walter de stapeldon, the great bishop of exeter, ordained that the twelve scholars whom he originally endowed ( ) should not study theology or be in orders. the society, afterwards known as exeter college, was housed at first in hart hall and arthur hall, in the parish of s. peter in the east, and was intended by the founder to be called stapeldon hall. in the following year he moved his scholars, eight of whom, he stipulated, must be drawn from devonshire and four from cornwall, to tenements which he had bought between the turl and smith gate, just within the walls. the founder added a rector to their number and gave them statutes, based on those of merton, which clearly indicated that his object was to give a good education to young laymen. the college was practically refounded in by sir william petre, a successful servant of the tudors. of the pre-reformation buildings, nothing unhappily remains save a fragment of the tower. the rest is seventeenth century or nineteenth, the front on turl street dating from , and the unlovely "modern gothic" front on broad street from . sir gilbert scott, who designed the latter, destroyed the old chapel and replaced it with a copy of the sainte chapelle. ten years later another daughter of merton was born. for in adam de brome, almoner of edward ii. and rector of s. mary's, obtained the royal licence to found a college of scholars, bachelor fellows, who should study theology and the ars dialectica. the statutes of this "hall of the blessed mary at oxford," afterwards known as king's hall and oriel college, were copied almost verbatim from those of merton. tackley's inn, on the south side of high street (no. ), and perilous hall, on the north side of horsemonger, now broad street, were purchased for the college. but in it was refounded by the king, endowed with the advowson and rectory of the church of s. mary, and ordered to be governed by a provost, chosen by the scholars from their own number. the first provost was the founder, who was also rector of s. mary's, and the society now established itself in the rectory house on the south side of the high street (st mary hall), at the north end of schidyard (oriel) street. the college gradually acquired property stretching up to st john's (now merton) street, and in so doing became possessed of the tenement at the angle of merton and oriel street called /p, or, for some uncertain reason, but probably on account of its possessing one of the architectural features indicated by that word, la oriole. it was here, then, that the society fixed its abode and from this hall it took its name. the present front quadrangle, resembling the contemporary front quadrangles of wadham and university, and endowed with a peculiar charm by the weather-stained and crumbling stone, stands on the site of la oriole and other tenements. it was completed in the year of the outbreak of the civil war, _regnante carolo_, as the legend on the parapet between the hall and chapel records, and the statue of charles i. above it indicates. the garden quadrangle was added in the eighteenth century. the monks and friars have gone their way and the place of their habitation knows them no more. but they have left their mark upon oxford in many ways. though their brotherhoods were disbanded by henry viii. and most of their buildings demolished, the quadrangles and cloisters of many colleges recall directly the monastic habit, and the college halls the refectory of a convent. whilst the college of s. john dates back from the scholastic needs of the cistercians, and the canterbury quad and gate at christ church keep alive by their names the recollection of the canterbury college founded by archbishop islip ( ) for the benedictines of canterbury, the old hostels, which were once erected to receive the benedictine students from other convents, survive in those old parts of worcester which lie on your left as you approach the famous gardens of that college. trinity college occupies the place of durham, and wadham has risen amid the ruins of a foundation of augustines, whose disputative powers were kept in memory in the exercises of the university schools down to . the monks of s. frideswide's priory, s. george's church, the abbey of osney, have all disappeared with the friaries. but christ church is a magnificent monument to the memory of the abbots and canons regular whom it has succeeded. the very conception of an academical college was no doubt largely drawn from the colleges of the regular religious orders, which, unlike those of the mendicants, were entirely designed as places of study. [illustration: monastic buildings, worcester college] we have seen how the foundation of merton, and therefore of exeter and oriel, was directly due to the coming of the friars. and it is to their influence that yet another great and once beautiful college, beautiful no longer, but greater now and more famous than ever by virtue of the services in politics and letters of its successful alumni, owes its origin. for it was under the guidance of a franciscan friar, one richard de slikeburne, that the widow of sir john de balliol carried out her husband's intention of placing upon a thoroughly organised footing his house for poor scholars. he, the lord of barnard castle, father of the illustrious rival of the bruce, having about the year "unjustly vexed and enormously damnified" the church of tynemouth and the church of durham, was compelled by the militant bishop whose hard task it was to keep peace on the border, to do penance. he knelt, in expiation of his crime, at the door of durham abbey, and was there publicly scourged by the bishop. he also undertook to provide a perpetual maintenance for certain poor scholars in the university. balliol's original scheme of benefaction had little in common with the peculiarly english college-system inaugurated by walter de merton. it was drawn up on the lines of the earlier foundations of paris. for the hall of balliol was originally a college for artists only who lost their places when they took a degree in arts. their scholarships meanwhile supplied them only with food and lodging of a moderate quality. but these youthful students, according to the democratic principles on which the halls were carried on, made their own statutes and customs, and it was in accordance with this code that the principal was required to govern them. balliol's scholars were established in oxford by june , and were at first supported by an annual allowance from him. he granted them a commons of eightpence a week. the hostel in which he lodged them was a house he hired in horsemonger street (broad street), facing the moat and city wall. but before he had made any provision for the permanent endowment of his scholars balliol died. a close connection had apparently from the first been established between the hall and the franciscans. one of the agents by whom balliol's dole had been distributed was a franciscan friar. now, under the guidance and probably at the instigation of the friar richard of slikeburne, whom she appointed her attorney in the business, lady dervorguilla of galloway, the widow of john of balliol, set herself to secure the welfare of her husband's scholars. since his death the very existence of the newly formed society had been in jeopardy. the lady dervorguilla, then, addressed a letter to the procurators or agents of balliol's dole, instructing them to put in force a code of statutes which was no doubt in great part merely a formal statement of customs already established at the old balliol hall. she next fitted up the north aisle of the parish church (s. mary magdalen) for the use of her scholars; she endowed them with lands in northumberland, and purchased for their dwelling-place three tenements east of old balliol hall. these tenements, which were south-west of the present front quadrangle, and faced the street, were soon known as new balliol hall or mary hall. the whole of the site of the front quadrangle was acquired by the society as early as . a few years later ( ) the scholars built themselves a chapel, part of which, said to be preserved in the dining-room of the master's house, forms an interesting link between the original scholars of balliol and the modern society which is connected with the name of dr jowett. the statutes, which had been much tinkered by subsequent benefactors and bishops, were finally revised by bishop fox, the enlightened and broad-minded founder of c.c.c. fox gave balliol a constitution, not altogether in harmony with his own ideals as expressed in the statutes of corpus, but such as he thought best fitted to fulfil the intentions of the founders. he divided the society into two halves:--ten juniors, _scholastici_, and ten fellows, _socii_, each of whom had a definite duty. in their hands the whole government of the college was placed. according to the new regulations the scholars or servitors of balliol were to occupy a position humbler than that of the younger students at any other college. they were to wait upon the master and the graduate fellows and to be fed with the crumbs that should fall from the table of their superiors. they were to be nominated by the fellow whom they were to serve, to be from eighteen to twenty-two years of age, and if they proved themselves industrious and well-behaved they were to be eligible to fellowships even though they had not taken the degree of b.a. commoners, as in most other colleges, were to be allowed to lodge within the walls of the college, and to take their meals with the members of the society. the fellowships, which entitled the holder to a "commons" of s. d. a week, were thrown open to competition, candidates being required, however, to be bachelors of arts, of legitimate birth, good character, proficient in their studies, and in need of assistance, for any cure of souls, or a private income of more than s. a year, was accounted a reason for disqualification. fox had a weakness for metaphors. in the statutes of corpus he "spoke horticulturally; his metaphor was drawn from bees." on the present occasion he uses a metaphor as elaborate and appropriate. the college is described as a human body. the master was the head, endued with the five senses of seeing clearly, hearing discreetly, smelling sagaciously, tasting moderately, and touching fitly; the senior fellow was the neck; the deans were the shoulders; the two priests the sides; the bursars the arms and hands; the fellows the stomach; the scholars the legs; and the servants the feet, whose function it is to go whithersoever they are bidden. just as the body when sick would require a physician, so it was said would the college sometimes require a visitor. the master and fellows were given the unusual privilege of choosing their own visitor. in the fifteenth century the whole quadrangle was rebuilt; the old hall, the old library, the master's house, and the block of buildings and gateway facing broad street being then erected. of these the shell of the master's house, the old hall, now converted into an undergraduates' library, and the old library, much defaced by wyatt, survive. the east wall of the library was used to form the west end of the chapel, which was built in to replace the old oratory. the sixteenth century chapel was removed and the present building erected as a memorial to dr jenkins, under whom balliol had begun to develop into a college of almost national importance. mr butterfield, the architect who had done his best to ruin merton, and who perpetrated keble, was entrusted with this unfortunate method of perpetuating the worthy master's memory. [illustration: balliol college] mr waterhouse is responsible for the present front of the college, the east side of the first quadrangle, the north side of the garden quadrangle and the new hall therein ( - ). not content with fighting the university, the oxford friars soon began to fight each other. rivalries sprang up between the orders; enormous scandals of discord, as matthew paris phrases it. jealousy found its natural vent in politics as in the schools. politically, the oxford franciscans supported simon de montfort; the dominicans sided with the king. the mad parliament met in the convent of the black friars. in philosophy the franciscans attacked the doctrine of the dominican, s. thomas aquinas, who had made an elaborate attempt to show that natural and revealed truth were complementary the one of the other. in order to establish this thesis and to reconcile human philosophy and the christian faith, the angelic doctor, for so he was commonly termed, had written an encyclopædia of philosophy and theology, in which he advanced arguments on both sides of every question and decided judicially on each in strict accordance with the tenets of the church. the light of this "sparkling jewel of the clergy, this very clear mirror of the university of paris, this noble and illuminating candlestick," was somewhat dimmed, however, when the great franciscan hero, the "subtle doctor," duns scotus, took up the argument, and clearly proved that the reasoning of this champion of orthodoxy was itself unorthodox. the world of letters was divided for generations into the rival camps of scotists and thomists. but the two doctors have fared very differently at the hands of posterity. thomas was made a saint, judged to be a "candlestick," and awarded by dante a place high in the realms of paradise. duns scotus, on the other hand, whose learning and industry were as great and his merit probably not much inferior, survives chiefly in the english language as a "dunce." the name of the great oxford scholar stands to the world chiefly as a synonym for a fool and a blockhead. for when the humanists, and afterwards the reformers, attacked his system as a farrago of needless entities and useless distinctions, the duns men, or dunses, on their side railed against the new learning. the name of dunce, therefore, already synonymous with cavilling sophist or hair-splitter, soon passed into the sense of dull, obstinate person, impervious to the new learning, and of blockhead, incapable of learning or scholarship. such is the justice of history. duns scotus had carried the day and the church rallied to the side of the franciscans. but such a successful attack involved the orders in extreme bitterness. the dominicans retorted that these franciscans, who claimed and received such credit throughout europe for humility and christlike poverty, were really accumulating wealth by alms or bequests. the charge was true enough. the pride and luxury of the friars, their splendid buildings, their laxity in the confessional, their artifices for securing proselytes, their continual strife with the university and their endeavours to obtain peculiar privileges therein had long undermined their popularity. they were regarded as "locusts" who had settled on the land and stripped the trees of learning and of life. duns scotus held almost undisputed sway for a while. his works on logic, theology and philosophy were text-books in the university. but presently there arose a new light, a pupil of his own, to supplant him. william of ockham, the "singular" or "invincible" doctor, revived the doctrine of nominalism. at once the glory and reproach of his order, he used the weapons of scholasticism to destroy it. but if in philosophy the "invincible doctor" was a sceptic, in theology he was a fanatical supporter of the extreme franciscan view that the ministers of christ were bound to follow the example of their master, and to impose upon themselves absolute poverty. it was a view which found no favour with popes or councils. but undeterred by the thunders of the church, ockham did not shrink from thus attacking the foundations of the papal supremacy or from asserting the rights of the civil power. paris had been, as we have seen, the first home of scholasticism, but with the beginning of the fourteenth century, oxford had taken its place as the centre of intellectual activity in europe. the most important schoolmen of the age were all oxonians, and nearly all the later schoolmen of note were englishmen or germans educated in the traditions of the english "nation" at paris. and when the old battle between nominalism and realism was renewed, it was fought with more unphilosophical virulence than before. "it was at this time that philosophy literally descended from the schools into the street, and that the _odium metaphysicum_ gave fresh zest to the unending faction fight between north and south at oxford, between czech and german at prague" (rashdall). yet this was not without good results. for scholasticism began now to come in contact with practical life. the disputants were led on to deal with the burning questions of the day, the questions, that is, as to the foundations of property, the respective rights of king and pope, of king and subject, of priest and people. the day was now at hand when the trend of political events, stimulated by the influence of the daring philosophical speculations of the oxford schoolmen, was to issue in a crisis. the crisis was a conflict between the claims of papal supremacy and the rights of the civil power, and for this crisis oxford produced the man--john wycliffe. born on the banks of the tees, he, the last of the great schoolmen, was educated at balliol, where he probably resided till he was elected master of that college in . in he accepted a college living and left oxford for a while, but was back again in , and resided in queen's college. he combined his residence there and his studies for a degree in theology with the holding of a living at ludgershall in bucks. some suppose that he was then appointed warden of canterbury hall,[ ] but this supposition is probably incorrect. at any rate he was already a person of importance, not only at oxford, but at the court. when parliament decided to repudiate the annual tribute to the pope which john had undertaken to pay, wycliffe officially defended this repudiation. he continued to study at oxford, developing his views. that he was in high favour at court is shown by the fact that he was nominated ( ) by the crown to the rectory of lutterworth and appointed one of the royal commissioners to confer with the papal representatives at bruges. but he continued lecturing at oxford and preaching in london. politically he threw in his lot with the lancastrian party. for he had been led in the footsteps of his italian and english predecessors, marsiglio and ockham, to proclaim that the church suffered by being involved in secular affairs, and that endowments were a hindrance to the proper spiritual purpose of the church. so it came about that the "flower of oxford," as he was called, the priest who desired to reform the clergy, found himself in alliance with john of gaunt, the worldly statesman, who merely desired to rob them. he soon found himself in need of the duke's protection. the wealthy and worldly churchmen of the day were not likely to listen tamely to his lectures. he was summoned before bishop courtenay of london to answer charges of erroneous teaching concerning the wealth of the church ( ). the duke of lancaster accepted the challenge as given to himself. he stood by wycliffe in the consistory court at s. paul's, and a rude brawl between his supporters and those of courtenay, in which the duke himself is said to have threatened to drag the bishop out of the church by the hair of his head, put an end to the trial. papal bulls were now promulgated against wycliffe. the university was directed to condemn and arrest him, if he were found guilty of maintaining certain "conclusions" extracted from his writings. the oxford masters, however, were annoyed at the attack made upon a distinguished member of their body, and they resented, as a threatened infringement of their privileges, the order of the archbishop and bishop of london, which commanded the oxford divines to hold an enquiry and to send wycliffe to london to be heard in person. what they did, therefore, was simply to enjoin wycliffe to remain within the walls of black hall, whilst they, after considering his opinions, declared them orthodox, but liable to misinterpretation. but wycliffe could not disobey the archbishop's summons to appear at lambeth. there he proved the value of a schoolman's training. the subtlety of "the most learned clerk of his time" reduced his opponents to silence. the prelates were at a loss how to proceed. they were relieved from their dilemma by the arrival of a knight from the court, who brought a peremptory message from the princess of wales, mother of richard ii., forbidding them to issue any decree against wycliffe. the session was dissolved by an invasion of the london crowd. wycliffe escaped scot-free. then followed the scandal of the great schism, when two, or even three, candidates each claimed to be the one and only vicar of christ. it is the great schism which would appear to have converted wycliffe into a declared opponent of the papacy. pondering on the problems of church and state which had hitherto occupied his energies, he was now forced to the conclusion that the papal, and therefore the sacerdotal power in general must be assailed. it was a logical deduction from his central thesis, the doctrine of "dominion founded on grace." he organised a band of preachers who should instruct the laity in the mother tongue and supply them with a bible translated into english. thus under his auspices oxford became the centre of a widespread religious movement. there the poor or simple priests, as they were called, had a common abode, whence, barefooted and clad in russet or grey gowns which reached to their ankles, they went forth to propagate his doctrines. and since the friars, who owed their independence of the bishops and clergy to the privilege conferred upon them by the popes, were strong supporters of the papal autocracy, wycliffe attacked them, by his own eloquence and that of his preachers, and that at a time when their luxurious and degenerate lives laid them open to popular resentment. already ( ) richard fitzralph, archbishop of armagh, who like wycliffe had been a scholar of balliol and in had held the office of vice-chancellor, had attacked the friars for their encroachments upon the domain of the parish priests; their power, their wealth, their mendicancy, he maintained, were all contrary to the example and precepts of christ and therefore of their founder. he charged them also with encroaching upon the rights of parents by making use of the confessional to induce children to enter their convents and become friars. this was the reason, he asserted, why the university had fallen to one-fifth of its former numbers, for parents were unwilling to send their sons thither and preferred to bring them up as farmers. this attack furnished wycliffe with a model for his onslaught. in his earlier days he had treated the friars with respect and even as allies--"a franciscan" he had said, "is very near to god"--for then he had been attacking the endowments of the church, and it was the monks or "possessioners" and the rich secular clergy to whom he was opposed. in theory the mendicant orders were opposed to these by their poverty and in practice by their interests. but the friars were the close allies and chief defenders of the pope. now, therefore, when wycliffe passed from political to doctrinal reform, his attitude towards the mendicant orders becomes one of uncompromising hostility. he and his followers denounced them with all the vehemence of religious partisanship and all the vigour of the vernacular. iscariot's children, they called them, and irregular procurators of the fiend, adversaries of christ and disciples of satan. wycliffe indeed went so far as to attribute an outbreak of disease in oxford to the idleness and intellectual stagnation of the friars. "being inordinately idle and commonly gathered together in towns they cause a whole sublunary unseasonableness." finally, wycliffe aimed at undermining the power of the priesthood by challenging the doctrine of transubstantiation. according to this doctrine the priest had the power of working a daily miracle by "making the body of christ." wycliffe, in the summer of , first publicly denied that the elements of the sacrament underwent any material change by virtue of the words uttered by the priest. the real presence of the body and blood of christ he maintained, but that there was any change of substance he denied. the heresy was promulgated at oxford. an enquiry was immediately held by the chancellor (william berton) and twelve doctors, half of them friars, and the new "pestiferous" doctrines were condemned. the condemnation and injunction forbidding any man in future to teach or defend them in the university was announced to wycliffe as he was sitting in the augustinian schools, disputing the subject. he was taken aback, but at once challenged chancellor or doctor to disprove his conclusions. the "pertinacious heretic," in fact, continued to maintain his thesis, and made a direct appeal, not to the pope, but to the king. the university rallied to his side and tacitly supported his cause by replacing berton with robert rygge in the office of vice-chancellor. rygge was more than a little inclined to be a wycliffite. and wycliffe meanwhile appealed also to the people by means of those innumerable tracts in the english tongue, which make the last of the schoolmen the first of the english pamphleteers. whilst he was thus entering on his most serious encounter with the church, suddenly there broke out the peasant revolt. the insurrection blazed forth suddenly, furiously, simultaneously and died away, having spent its force in a fortnight. it was a sporadic revolt with no unity of purpose or action except to express the general social discontent. but the upper classes were seriously frightened and some of the odium was reflected on the subversive doctrines of wycliffe, whose lollard preachers had doubtless dabbled not a little in the socialism which honey-combed the middle ages. when order was again restored, courtenay, now become archbishop, began to take active measures to repress the opinions of wycliffe. he summoned a synod at the blackfriars in london to examine them. the first session was interrupted by an earthquake, which was differently interpreted as a sign of the divine approval or anger. the earthquake council had no choice but to condemn such doctrines as those they were asked to consider, that god ought to obey the devil, for instance, or that no one ought to be recognised as pope after urban vi. when these doctrines were condemned, wycliffe does not appear to have been present, nor was any action at all taken against him personally. it is supposed that his popularity at oxford rendered him too formidable a person to attack. he was left at peace and the storm fell upon his disciples. the attack was made on "certain children of perdition," who had publicly taught the condemned doctrines, and "who went about the country preaching to the people, without proper authority." all such preachers were to be visited with the greater excommunication. as oxford, however, was the centre of the movement a separate mandate was sent thither. the archbishop sent down a commissary, peter stokes, a carmelite friar, to oxford, to prohibit the teaching of incorrect doctrines, but avoiding any mention of the teacher's name. the university authorities were by no means pleased at this invasion, so they held it, of their ancient privileges. the chancellor rygge had just appointed nicholas hereford, a devoted follower of wycliffe, to preach before the university; he now appointed a no less loyal follower, philip repyngdon to the same office. his sermon was an outspoken defence of the lollards. stokes reported that he dared not publish the archbishop's mandate, that he went about in the fear of his life; for scholars with arms concealed beneath their gowns accompanied the preachers and it appeared that not the chancellor only, but both the proctors were wycliffites, or at least preferred to support the wycliffites to abating one jot of what they considered the privileges of the university. and for once the mayor was of the same opinion as the rulers of the university. still, when the chancellor was summoned before the archbishop in london, he did not venture to disobey, and promptly cleared himself of any suspicion of heresy. the council met again at the blackfriars, and rygge submissively took his seat in it. on his bended knees he apologised for his disobedience to the archbishop's orders, and only obtained pardon through the influence of william of wykeham. short work was made of the oxford wycliffites; they were generally, and four of them by name, suspended from all academical functions. rygge returned to oxford, with a letter from courtenay which repeated the condemnation of the four preachers, adding to their names the name of wycliffe himself. the latter was likened by the archbishop to a serpent which emits noxious poison. but the chancellor protested he dared not execute this mandate, and a royal warrant had to be issued to compel him. meanwhile he showed his real feeling in the matter by suspending a prominent opponent of the wycliffites who had called them by the offensive name of lollards ("idle babblers"). but the council in london went on to overpower the party by stronger measures.[ ] wycliffe had apparently retired before the storm burst upon oxford. john of gaunt was appealed to by the preachers named. but the great duke of lancaster had no desire to incur the charge of encouraging heresy. he pronounced the opinions of hereford and repyngdon on the nature of the eucharist utterly detestable. the last hope of lollardism was gone. wycliffe himself retired unmolested to lutterworth, where he died and was buried. "admirable," says fuller "that a hare so often hunted with so many packs of dogs should die at last quietly sitting in his form." just as he owed his influence as a reformer to the skill and fame as a schoolman which he had acquired at oxford, so now his immunity was due to his reputation as the greatest scholastic doctor in the "second school of the church." the statute "de haeretico comburendo" did its work quickly in stamping out lollardy in the country. the tares were weeded out. in oxford alone the tradition of wycliffe died hard. a remarkable testimonial was issued in october by the chancellor and masters, sealed with the university seal. some have thought it a forgery, and at the best it probably only represented, as maxwell lyte suggests, the verdict of a minority of the masters snatched in the long vacation. but it is in any case of considerable significance. it extols the character of john wycliffe, and his exemplary performances as a son of the university; it extols his truly catholic zeal against all who blasphemed christ's religion by voluntary begging, and asserts that he was neither convicted of heretical pravity during his life, nor exhumed and burned after death. he had no equal, it maintains, in the university as a writer on logic, philosophy, theology or ethics. here then, archbishop arundel ( ) an oriel man, who with his father had built for that college her first chapel, found it necessary to take strong steps. he held a provincial council at oxford and ordered that all books written in wycliffe's time should pass through the censorship, first of the university of oxford or cambridge, and secondly of the archbishop himself, before they might be used in the schools. the establishment of such a censorship was equivalent to a fatal muzzling of genius. if it silenced the wycliffite teaching, it silenced also the enunciation of any original opinion or truth. two years later arundel risked a serious quarrel with the university in order to secure the appointment of a committee to make a list of heresies and errors to be found in wycliffe's writings. he announced his intention of holding a visitation of the university with that object. he met with violent opposition. the opponents of the archbishop were not all enthusiastic supporters of wycliffe's views. not all masters and scholars were moved by pure zeal either for freedom of speculation or for evangelical truth. the local patriotism of the north countryman reinforced the religious zeal of the lollard. the chronic antipathy of the secular scholars to the friars, of the realists to the nominalists, of the artists to the higher faculties, and the academic pride of the loyal oxonians--these were all motives which fought for wycliffe and his doctrines. least tangible but not least powerful among them was the last, for when civil or ecclesiastical authority endeavoured to assert itself over corporate privileges in the middle ages, a very hornet's nest of local patriotism and personal resentment was quickly roused. the oxford masters were impatient of all interference ecclesiastical as well as civil. they had thrown off the yoke of the bishop of lincoln and the archdeacon of oxford. and, with a view to asserting their independence of the primate, they had succeeded in obtaining a bull from boniface ix. in which he specifically confirmed the sole jurisdiction of the chancellor over all members of the university whatever, priests and monks and friars included. the university, however, was compelled to renounce the bull, and to submit to the visitation of the archbishop. but the submission was not made without much disturbance and bitterness of feeling. the lollards, the younger scholars and the northerners, with their lawless allies the irish, were in favour of active resistance. the behaviour of three fellows of oriel will show how the university was divided against itself. these men, so runs the complaint against them, "are notorious fomenters of discord." "they lead a band of ruffians by night, who beat, wound, and spoil men and cause murder. they haunt taverns day and night, and do not enter college before ten or eleven or twelve o'clock, and even scale the walls to the disturbance of quiet students, and bring in armed strangers to spend the night. thomas wilton came in over the wall at ten and knocked at the provost's chamber, and woke up and abused him as a liar, and challenged him to get up and come out to fight him. against the provost's express orders, on the vigil of s. peter, these three had gone out of college, broken the chancellor's door and killed a student of law. the chancellor could neither sleep in his house by night nor walk in the high street by day for fear of these men." the arrival of the archbishop at oxford then, to hold a visitation at s. mary's was a signal for an outbreak. s. mary's was barricaded and a band of scholars armed with bows, swords and bucklers awaited the primate. notwithstanding the interdict laid on the church, john birch of oriel, one of the proctors, took the keys, opened the doors, had the bell rung as usual, and even celebrated high mass there. s. mary's, it will be remembered, belonged to oriel. hence, perhaps, the active resistance of these oriel fellows and of the dean of oriel, john rote, who asked "why should we be punished by an interdict on our church for other people's faults?" and he elegantly added, "the devil go with the archbishop and break his neck." the controversy was at last referred to the king. the chancellors and proctors resigned their office. the younger students who had opposed the archbishop were soundly whipped, much to the delight of henry iv. the bull of exemption was declared invalid; the university acknowledged itself subject to the see of canterbury, thanks to the mediation of the prince of wales, mad-cap harry, and the archbishop arundel made a handsome present of books to the public library of oxford. the committee desired by arundel was eventually constituted. two hundred and sixty-seven propositions were condemned and the obnoxious books solemnly burnt at carfax. not long after, a copy of the list of condemned articles was ordered to be preserved in the public libraries, and oaths against their maintenance were enjoined upon all members of the university on graduation. the methods of the archbishop met with the success which usually attends a well-conducted persecution. history notices the few martyrs who from time to time have laid down their lives for their principles, but it often fails to notice the millions of men who have discarded their principles rather than lay down their lives. so the wycliffite heresy was at length dead and buried. but the ecclesiastical repression which succeeded in bringing this about succeeded also in destroying all vigour and life in the thought of the university. henceforth the schoolmen refrained from touching on the practical questions of their day. they struck out no new paths of thought, but revolved on curves of subtle and profitless speculation, reproducing and exaggerating in their logical hair-splitting all the faults without any of the intellectual virtues of the great thinkers of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. it was against these degenerate dullards that the human mind at last rebelled, when intellect was born again in the new birth of letters. what wonder then if, suddenly freed from the dead weight of their demoralising stupidities, men broke out in the exuberance of their spirits into childish excesses, confused the master with his foolish and depressing pupils, strewed the quadrangle of new college with the leaves of dunce, and put them to the least noble of uses, as though they had been the chronicles of volusius. the archbishop's right of visitation was confirmed in parliament and with it the suppression of lollardy, of free speech and thought, in the schools and pulpits of oxford. the issue of the struggle practically closes the history of lollardism as a recognised force in english politics, and with it the intellectual history of mediæval oxford. up to that time the university had shown itself decidedly eager for reform, and for a few years the same spirit survived. oxford had consistently advocated the summoning of a general council to settle the claims of the rival popes and to put an end to the schism which was the scandal of christendom. but for fifteen years such pacific designs were eluded by the arts of the ambitious pontiffs, and the scruples or passions of their adherents. at length the council of pisa deposed, with equal justice, the popes of rome and avignon. in their stead, as they intended, but in addition to them as events were to prove, the conclave, at which the representatives of oxford and cambridge were present, unanimously elected peter philargi. this franciscan friar from crete, who had taken his degree of bachelor of theology at oxford, assumed the title of alexander v., and remains the only wearer of the tiara who has graduated at oxford or cambridge. he was shortly afterwards succeeded by john xxiii., the most profligate of mankind. it remained for the council of constance to correct the rash proceedings of pisa, and to substitute one head of the church in place of the three rival popes ( ). but before the opening of this council the university of oxford had drawn up and presented to the king a document of a very remarkable character. it consisted of forty-six articles for the reformation of the church. the oxford masters suggested that the three rival popes should all resign their claims; they complained of the simoniacal and extortionate proceedings of the roman court, and of the appointment of foreigners to benefices in england; they accused the archbishops of encroaching on the rights of their suffragans, and charged the whole order of prelates with nepotism and avarice. abbots, they contended, should not be allowed to wear mitres and sandals as if they were bishops, and monks should hot be exempt from ordinary episcopal jurisdiction. friars should be restrained from granting absolution on easy terms, from stealing children, and from begging for alms in the house of god. secular canons should be made to abandon their luxurious style of living, and masters of hospitals to pay more regard to the wants of the poor. parish priests, who neglected the flocks committed to their care, are described as ravening wolves. the masters also complained of the non-observance of the sabbath and of the iniquitous system of indulgences. shades of the founder of lincoln college, what a document is this! it is wycliffism alive, rampant and unashamed. not perhaps altogether unashamed or at least not indiscreet, for the masters go out of their way to call for active measures against the lollards. but the whole of this manifesto is a cry from oxford, in , for reformation; it is a direct echo of the teaching and declamation of wycliffe, and an appeal for reformation as deliberate and less veiled than "the vision of william langland concerning piers plowman," that sad, serious satirist of those times, who, in his contemplation of the corruption he saw around him in the nobility, the government, the church and the friars, "all the wealth of the world and the woe too," saw no hope at all save in a new order of things. oxford's zeal for reformation at this time was made very clear also by her representatives at constance, where a former chancellor, robert halam, bishop of salisbury, and henry abingdon, a future warden of merton, very greatly distinguished themselves. yet it was by a decree of this very council of constance ( ) that the remains of wycliffe were ordered to be taken up and cast out far from those of any orthodox christian. this order was not executed till twelve years later, when bishop fleming, having received direct instructions from the pope, saw to it. wycliffe's remains were dug up, burnt and cast into the swift, but, as it has been said, the swift bore them to the avon, the avon to the severn, and the severn to the sea to be dispersed unto all lands: which things are an allegory. for though in england the repression of his teaching deferred the reformation, which theologically as well as politically wycliffe had begun, for more than a hundred years, yet abroad, in bohemia, the movement which he had commenced grew into a genuine national force, destined to react upon the world. bishop fleming, who had been proctor in , seems to have thought that the snake was scotched but not killed. for though he had been a sympathiser with the lollards in his youth, in his old age he thought it worth while to found a "little college of theologians," who should defend the mysteries of the sacred page "against these ignorant laics, who profaned with swinish snout its most holy pearls." the students in this stronghold of orthodox divinity were to proceed to the degree of b.d. within a stated period; they must swear not to favour the pestilent sect of wycliffites, and if they persisted in heresy were to be cast out of the college "as diseased sheep." it was in that fleming obtained a charter permitting him to unite the three parish churches of all saints', s. michael's, and s. mildred's into a collegiate church, and there to establish a "collegiolum," consisting of a rector and seven students of theology, endowed with the revenue of those churches. no sooner had he appointed the first rector, purchased a site and begun to erect the buildings just south of the tower, than he died. the energy of the second rector, however, dr john beke, secured the firmer foundation of the college. he completed the purchase of the original site, which is represented by the front quadrangle and about half the grove; and thereon john forest, dean of wells, completed ( ) the buildings as fleming had planned them, including a chapel and library, hall and kitchen, and rooms. modern lincoln is bounded by brasenose college and brasenose lane, the high street and the turl,[ ] the additional property between all saints' church and the front quadrangle having been bestowed upon the college during the period - . of forest's buildings the kitchen alone remains untouched, and a very charming fragment of the old structure it is. the foundation of lincoln was remodelled and developed by thomas rotherham, chancellor of cambridge, and afterwards archbishop of york. his benefactions to the cause of learning were munificent and unceasing, and, so far as lincoln is concerned, he may fairly be called the college's second founder. the origin of his interest in the college arose from a picturesque incident. when he visited the college as bishop of the diocese in , the rector, john tristrope, urged its claims in the course of a sermon. he took for his text the words from the psalm, "behold and visit this vine, and the vineyard which thy right hand hath planted," and he earnestly exhorted the bishop to complete the work begun by his predecessor. for the college was poor, and what property it had was at this time threatened. so powerful and convincing was his appeal that, at the end of the sermon, the bishop stood up and announced that he would grant the request. he was as good as his word. he gave the college a new charter and new statutes ( )--a code which served it till the commission of ; he increased its revenues and completed the quadrangle on the south side. there is a vine which still grows in lincoln, on the north side of the chapel quadrangle, and this is the successor of a vine which was either planted alongside the hall in allusion to the successful text, or, being already there, suggested it. [illustration: oriel window, lincoln college] chapter v the mediÆval student "a clerk ther was of oxenford also, that unto logik hadde longe ygo.... for him was lever have at his beddes heed twenty bokes, clad in blak or reed, of aristotle and his philosophye than robes riche, or fithele or gay sautrye. but al be that he was a philosophre, yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre; but al that he mighte of his freendes hente, on bokes and on lerninge he it spente, and bisily gan for the soules preye of hem that yaf him wherwith to scoleye. of studie took he most cure and most hede. noght o word spak he more than was nede, and that was seyd in forme and reverence, and short and quik, and ful of hy sentence. souninge in moral vertu was his speche, and gladly wolde he lerne and gladly teche." as you drive into oxford from the railway station, you pass, as we have seen, monuments which may recall to mind the leading features of her history and the part which she took in the life of the country. the castle mound takes us back to the time when saxon was struggling against dane; the castle itself is the sign manual of the norman conquerors; the cathedral spire marks the site upon which s. frideswide and her "she-monastics" built their saxon church upon the virgin banks of the river. carfax, with the church of s. martin, was the centre [illustration: the porch & gate s. mary the virgins.] of the city's life and represents the spirit of municipal liberty which animated her citizens, and the progress of their municipal freedom. the bell which swung in carfax tower summoned the common assembly to discuss and to decide their own public affairs and to elect their own mayor. and this town-mote of burghers, freemen within the walls, who held their rights as burghers by virtue of their tenure of ground on which their tenement stood, met in carfax churchyard. justice was administered by mayor and bailiff sitting beneath the low shed, the "penniless bench"[ ] of later times, without its eastern wall. and around the church lay the trade guilds, ranged as in some vast encampment. carfax church, with all its significance of municipal life, stands at the top of high street, the most beautiful street in the world. still, by virtue of the splendid sweep of its curve comparable only to the grand canal of venice or the bend of windermere, and by virtue of the noble grouping of its varied buildings, the most beautiful street in the world; in spite of modern tramways and the ludicrous dome of the shelley memorial, "a thing resembling a goose pye," as swift wrote of sir john vanburgh's house in whitehall; in spite of the disquieting ornamentation of brasenose new buildings and the new schools; in spite even of the unspeakably vulgar and pretentious façade of lloyd's bank, a gross, advertising abomination of unexampled ugliness and impertinence, which has done all that was possible to ruin the first view of this street of streets. let us leave it behind us with a shudder and pass down the high till we find on our left, at what was once the end of "schools street," the lovely twisted columns of the porch which forms the modern entrance to s. mary's church. what carfax was to the municipal life of oxford, s. mary's was to the university. it was the centre of the academical and ecclesiastical life of the place. and the bell which swung in s. mary's tower summoned the students of the university sometimes to take part in learned disputations among themselves, sometimes to fight the citizens of the town. here then, between the churches of s. martin and s. mary, the life of this mediæval university town ebbed and flowed. in the narrow, ill-paved, dirty streets, streets that were mere winding passages, from which the light of day was almost excluded by the overhanging tops of the irregular houses, crowded a motley throng. the country folks filled the centre of the streets with their carts and strings of pack-horses; at the sides, standing beneath the signs of their calling, which projected from their houses, citizens in varied garb plied their trades, chaffering with the manciples, but always keeping their bow-strings taut, ready to promote a riot by pelting a scholar with offal from the butchers' stall, and prompt to draw their knives at a moment's notice. to and fro among the stalls moved jews in their yellow gaberdines; black benedictines and white cistercians; friars black, white and grey; men-at-arms from the castle, and flocks of lads who had entered some grammar school or religious house to pass the first stage of the university course. here passed a group of ragged, gaunt, yellow-visaged sophisters, returning peacefully from lectures to their inns, but with their "bastards" or daggers, as well as their leather pouches, at their waists. here a knot of students, fantastically attired in many-coloured garments, whose tonsure was the only sign of their clerkly character, wearing beards, long hair, furred cloaks, and shoes chequered with red and green, paraded the thoroughfare, heated with wine from the feast of some determining bachelor. here a line of servants, carrying the books of scholars or doctors to the schools, or there a procession of colleagues escorting to the grave the body of some master, and bearing before the corpse a silver cross, threaded the throng. here hurried a bachelor in his cape, a new master in [illustration: the high street on the left university college. on the right all saints' church, brasenose college, church of s. mary the virgin, all souls' & queen's colleges.] his "pynsons" or heelless shoes, a scholar of exeter in his black boots, a full-fledged master with his tunic closely fastened about the middle by a belt and wearing round his shoulders a black, sleeveless, close gown. here gleamed a mantle of crimson cloth, or the budge-edged hood of a doctor of law or of theology. and in the hubbub of voices which proceeded from this miscellaneous, parti-coloured mob, might be distinguished every accent, every language, and every dialect.[ ] for french, german and spanish students jostled in these streets against english, irish, scottish and welsh; kentish students mingled with students from somersetshire or yorkshire, and the speech of each was quite unintelligible to the other. s. mary's church was the only formal meeting place of these students, thus drawn together in the pursuit of knowledge from various parts of europe. it was here that all university business, secular and religious, was transacted, till the building of the divinity school and the sheldonian theatre allowed the church to be reserved for sacred purposes. then at last it ceased to be the scene of violent altercations between heads of houses or the stage where the terræ filius of the year should utter his scurrilous banalities.[ ] but still every sunday morning during term the great bell of s. mary's rings out and summons the university to assemble in formal session there to hear a sermon. the bedels of the four faculties with their silver staves lead the way; and the vice-chancellor is conducted to his throne, the preacher to his pulpit; the doctors of the several faculties in their rich robes follow and range themselves on either side of their official head; below them the proctors, representatives of the masters of arts, wearing the white hoods of their office, take their seats. the masters and bachelors fill the body of the church, the undergraduates are crowded into the galleries. we must not think of s. mary's as merely a meeting-house for university business or as merely a parish church. for centuries it has been the centre of christian oxford; where each successive movement in english theology has been expounded and discussed. from the old stone pulpit, of which a fragment is fixed over the southern archway of the tower, peter martyr delivered his testimony and cole sent cranmer to the stake; from its nineteenth century successor, john keble began the oxford movement; dr pusey preached a sermon for which he was suspended, and newman (vicar ) entered on the path to rome. the church is mentioned in domesday book, and the north wall of the lady chapel, commonly known as adam de brome's chapel because the tomb of the founder of oriel is therein, may have been part of the church as it stood at the time of the domesday survey. the tower and the spire date from the early fourteenth century. s. mary's as we have it now is very much a tudor building. when william of wykeham built new college chapel he set a fashion which soon converted oxford into a city of pinnacles.[ ] in the perpendicular style pinnacles were erected on merton tower and transept, on all souls' chapel, on magdalen chapel, hall and tower; nearly a hundred pinnacles decorated the schools and library; the nave, aisles and chancel of s. mary's received the same ornaments, and pinnacles in the same style were added to the clusters of the fourteenth century tower and spire. these were not high but observed a true proportion. it was the grave fault of the excessively lofty pinnacles (beautiful no doubt in themselves) which were added in ,[ ] that they destroyed the true beauty of proportion and the effect of gradual transition which the fourteenth century builders had succeeded in giving to the tower and spire, and with which the ancient statues in [illustration: s. mary's spire from grove lane] their canopied niches were in perfect harmony. for the massive tower-buttresses are crowned with turrets, showing canopied niches containing twelve over-life-size statues and decorated with ball-flower ornament. two of the statues on the buttresses facing south are modern; nine others are copies ( ) of the old statues, stored now in the ancient congregation house, which still exhibit the carefully calculated gestures and the studied designs of the original fourteenth century workers. they form a series which recalls that on the west front of wells cathedral, a rare example of english sculpture in a _genre_ which is so plentifully and superbly illustrated by the french cathedrals. on the face of the south buttress of the west front stood the statue, beautifully posed, of the virgin with the infant christ, the lady of the church thus occupying the most important angle of the tower; on the left, s. john the evangelist with the cup. between the evangelist and s. john the baptist, patron saint of the chapel of merton, walter of merton looks out towards the college he founded. these three are from new designs by mr frampton. on the n.w. angle of the tower is s. cuthbert of durham, facing northwards. he holds in his hand the head of s. oswald, the christian king slain by penda, and looks towards his own north country and durham, the great diocese so intimately connected through its bishops and monastery with the early collegiate foundations of the universities. northwards, too, towards his cathedral church of lincoln, faces s. hugh, with the wild swan of stowe nestling to him as was his wont, with its neck buried in the folds of his sleeve. this statue is on the eastern buttress at the n.e. angle, and on the eastern face of the same buttress is an equally noble statue of edward the confessor. on the s.e. angle stands, it may be, the murdered becket, and among the other figures edmund rich may perhaps be counted. the chancel and nave are, it will be seen, splendid examples of late perpendicular. the chancel, in fact, began to be rebuilt in and the nave - . for the church "was so ruinated in henry vii. reign that it could scarce stand," and though it was and is really a parish church, yet so closely was it bound up with the life and procedure of the university that the university at length took measures to collect money for its repair. they begged, after the approved manner of the great church-builders of the middle ages, from the archbishop downwards, and their begging was so successful that they built the nave, as we now have it, and the chancel. in order to secure an appearance of uniformity, the architect unfortunately altered adam de brome's chapel, encasing the outer walls in the new style, and inserting larger windows. not content with this, he likewise converted the old house of congregation by substituting a row of large for two rows of small windows, giving thereby a false impression from the outside, as if the upper and lower stories were one. the university had no right to the use of s. mary's. the church was merely borrowed for sermons and meetings of congregation, just as s. peter's in the east was borrowed for english sermons and s. mildred's for meetings of the faculty of arts. for the university in its infancy had little or no property of its own. it could not afford to erect buildings for its own use. the parish churches, therefore, were used by favour of the clergy, and lectures were delivered in hired schools. the need for some university building was, however, severely felt. at last it was provided for in a small way. "that memorable fabric, the old congregation house," and the room above it were begun in by the above-mentioned adam de brome, at the expense of thomas cobham, bishop of worcester. the latter had undertaken to enlarge the old fabric of s. mary's church by erecting a building two stories high immediately to the east of the tower, on the very site, that is, on which the university had previously endeavoured to found a chantry. he intended that the lower room should serve primarily as a meeting-place for the congregations of regent-masters, and at other times for parochial purposes. the upper room was to be used partly as an oratory, and partly as a general library. but the good bishop's books, which were to form the nucleus of this library, met with the same fate as richard de bury's. his executors pawned them to defray the expenses of his funeral, and to pay his debts. oriel college at their suggestion redeemed the books, and being also the impropriating rectors of the church, they claimed to treat both building and library as their own property. but the masters presently asserted their supposed rights by coming "with a great multitude" and forcibly carrying away the books from oriel, "in autumn, when the fellows were mostly away." they lodged the books in the upper chamber, and oriel presently acknowledged the university's proprietary rights. the old university library, then, found its home in the upper room of the old congregation house, and there remained until the books were moved to duke humphrey's library ( ). from that time till the erection of laud's convocation house, the upper room was used as a school of law, and also as another congregation house, distinguished by the name of "upper." meantime a salary was provided for a librarian, who, besides taking care of the books in the upper chamber, was to pray for the soul of the donors. other books were acquired by the university, either by purchase, bequest, or as unredeemed pledges. some of these were kept in chests, and loaned out on security like cash from the other chests, whilst others were books given or bequeathed to the university, which were kept chained in the chancel of the church, where the students might read them. others, in the upper room, were secured to shelves by chains that ran on iron bars. these shelves, with desks alongside, would run out from the walls, between the seven windows, in a manner clearly shown by such survivals of mediæval libraries as exist at the bodleian, merton and corpus. the catalogue was in the form of a large board suspended in the room. at first these books were open for the use of all students at the specified times, but by later statutes ( ), made when the library had been increased by further donations and time had brought bitter experience, the use of them was stringently limited to graduates or religious of eight years' standing in philosophia. these regulations were intended to provide against the overcrowding of the small library, the disturbance of readers and the destruction of books by careless, idle and not over-clean boy students. with the object of preserving the books, a solemn oath was also exacted from all graduates on admission to their degree, that they would use them well and carefully. the lower room fulfilled its founder's intention, and here the congregation of regents met, whilst the convocation, or great congregation of regents and non-regents, was held in the chancel of the church. here, then, we may imagine the chancellor sitting, surrounded by doctors and masters of the great congregation as the scene was formerly depicted in the great west window of s. mary's, and is still represented on the university seal. i have referred to the "chests" which were kept in the upper chamber. this was in fact the treasure-house of the university, and here were stored in great chests doubly and trebly locked, like the "bodley" chest in the bodleian, the books and money with which the university had been endowed for the benefit of her scholars. mr anstey (_munimenta academica_) has given a brilliant little sketch of the scene which the fancy may conjure up when the new guardians of the chests were appointed and the chests opened in their presence. it is the eve of the festival of s. john at the latin gate, in the year of grace . to-morrow is the commemoration day of w. de seltone, founder of the chest known by his name. master t. parys, principal of s. mary hall, and master lowson are the new guardians, the latter the north countryman of the two. high mass has just been sung with commemoration collects, and solemn prayers for the repose of the souls of w. de seltone and all the faithful departed. it is not a reading (legible) day, so the church is full. but now all have left, except a few ragged-looking lads, who still kneel towards the altar, and seem to be saying their pater nosters and ave marias, according to their vow, for their benefactor. master parys and master lowson, however, have left earlier; they have passed out of the chancel and made their way into the old congregation house for their first inspection of the seltone chest. each of the guardians draws from beneath his cape a huge key, which he applies to the locks. at the top lies the register of the contents, in which is recorded particulars, dates, names and amounts of the loans granted. the money remaining in one corner of the chest is carefully counted and compared with the account in the register. here and there among valuable mss. lie other pledges of less peaceful sort but no less characteristic of a mediæval student's valuable possessions. here perhaps are two or three daggers of more than ordinary workmanship, and there a silver cup or a hood lined with minever. that man in an ordinary civilian's dress, who stands beside master parys, is john more, the university stationer, and it is his office to fix the value of the pledges offered, and to take care that none are sold at less than their real value. it is a motley group that stands around; there are several masters and bachelors, but more boys and young men in every variety of coloured dress, blue, red, medley or green. many of these lads are but scantily clothed, and all have their attention riveted on the chest, each with curious eye watching for his pledge, his book or his cup, brought from some country village, perhaps an old treasure of his family, and now pledged in his extremity. for last term he could not pay the principal of his hall seven and sixpence due for the rent of his miserable garret, or the manciple for his battels, but now he is in funds again. the remittance, long delayed on the road, has arrived, or perhaps he has succeeded in earning or begging a sufficient sum to redeem his pledge. he pulls out the coin from the leathern money-pouch at his girdle. but among the group you may see one master, whose bearing and dress plainly denote superior comfort and position. he is wearing the academical costume of a master, cincture and biretta, gown and hood of minever. can it be that he too has been in difficulties? he might easily have been, for the post was irregular, and rents were not always punctual in those days. but in this case it is master henry sever, warden of merton, who has lately been making some repairs in the college, and he has borrowed from the seltone chest the extreme sum permitted by the ordinance, sixty shillings, for that purpose. the scholars plainly disapprove of his action. they are jealous of his using the funds of the chest which, they think, were not intended for the convenience of such as he. master sever, however, is filled with anxiety at the present moment. he has pledged an illuminated missal which far exceeds in value the sum he has borrowed, and this he omitted to redeem at the proper time. it is not in the chest. he inquires, and is told that it has been borrowed for inspection by an intending purchaser, who has left a silver cup in its place, of more intrinsic value by the stationer's decision, but not in mr sever's opinion. satisfied that he will be able to effect an exchange, he departs with the cup in search of the owner. other cases are now considered. some redeem their pledges, some borrow more monies, some are new customers, and they sorrowfully deposit their treasures and slink sadly away, not without a titter from the more hardened bystanders. but before the iron lid closes again, and the bolts slide back, "ye shall pray," says master parys, addressing the borrowers, "for the soul of w. de seltone and all the faithful departed." we may pass from this scene in the old convocation house to another not less typical of the mediæval university. the chancellor's court is being held, and the chancellor himself is sitting there, or, in his absence, his commissary. the two proctors are present as assessors, and these three constitute the court. it is before this tribunal that every member of the "privilege" must be tried. for it was only in a university court that they could be sued in the first instance. here then, if we attend this court and glance through the records of ages, we shall find the chancellor administering justice, exercising the extensive powers which he holds as a justice of the peace and as almost the supreme authority over members of the university. true, he had not the power of life and death, but he could fine or banish, imprison and excommunicate. and as to the townsmen, he exercised over them a joint jurisdiction with the mayor and civic authorities. the accused was entitled to have an advocate to defend him, and he could appeal to the congregation of masters, and thereafter to the pope. no spiritual cause terminable within the university could be carried out of it. but in all temporal cases the ultimate appeal was to the king. the truculent student, however, was often inclined to appeal to force. master john hodilbeston, it is recorded in the acts of the chancellor's court ( ), when accused of a certain offence, was observed to have brought a dagger into the very presence of the chancellor, contrary to the statutes, "wherefore he lost his arms to the university and was put in bocardo." the next case on the list of this mediæval police court is that of thomas skibbo. he is not a clerk, but he too finds his way to bocardo, for he has committed many crimes of violence. highway robbery and threats of murder were nothing to him, as a scholar of bekis-inn comes forward to depose, and, besides, he has stolen a serving boy. after the scholar and the ruffian, the warden of canterbury college steps forward. he has come to make his submission to the commissary, whom he had declared to be a partial judge, and whose summons he had refused to obey. also, he has added injury to insult by encouraging his scholars to take beer by violence in the streets. the commissary graciously accepts his apology and his undertaking to keep the peace in future. the master of the great hall of the university now comes forward. evil rumours have been rife, and he wishes to clear his character of vile slanders that have connected his name with those of certain women. he brings no charge of slander, but claims the right of clearing himself by making an affidavit. this was the system of compurgation, by which a man swore that he was innocent of a crime, and twelve good friends of his swore that he was speaking the truth. in this case the master was permitted to clear himself by oath before the commissary in merton college chapel, and mistress agnes bablake and divers women appeared and swore with him that rumour was a lying jade. on another occasion the principal of white hall wished to prove his descent from true english stock. he insisted on being allowed to swear that he was not a scotsman. a discreditable rumour to that effect had doubtless got abroad, without taking tangible form. but he was, he maintained, a loyal englishman. "it was greatly to his credit" doubtless. _qui s'excuse, s'accuse_, we are inclined to think in such cases. the appalling penalties which awaited the perjurer probably gave the ceremony some force at one time. but dr gascoigne enters his protest in the chancellor's book ( ) against the indiscriminate admission of parties to compurgation. national feeling and clan feeling ran high. gascoigne says that he has known many cases in which people have privately admitted that they have perjured themselves in public. moreover, he added, no townsman ventures to object to a person being admitted to compurgation, for fear of being murdered or at least maimed. no good end, therefore, can be answered by it. but what is the cause of robert wright, esquire-bedel? he has some complaint against the master and fellows of great university hall ( ). the chancellor listens for a moment, and then suggests, like a modern london police magistrate, that they should settle their quarrel out of court. they decide to appoint arbitrators, and bind themselves to abide by their award. the commissary is frequently appointed arbitrator himself, and his award is usually to the effect that one party shall humbly ask pardon of the other, pay a sum of money and swear to keep the peace. other awards are more picturesque. thus, when broadgates and pauline halls decided to settle their quarrel in this way, the arbitrators ordered the principals mutually to beg reconciliation from each other for themselves and their parties, and to give either to the other the kiss of peace and swear upon the bible to have brotherly love to each other, under a bond of a hundred shillings. david phillipe, who struck john olney, must kneel to him and ask and receive pardon. as an earnest of their future good-will, it is often decreed that the two parties shall entertain their neighbours. two gallons of ale are mentioned sometimes as suitable for this purpose; a feast is recommended at others, and the dishes are specified. as thus:--( ) the arbiter decides that neither party in a quarrel which he has been appointed to settle, shall in future abuse, slander, threaten or make faces at the other. as a guarantee of their mutual forgiveness and reconciliation, they are commanded to provide at their joint charges an entertainment in s. mary's college. the arbiter orders the dinner; one party is to supply a goose and a measure of wine, the other bread and beer. many and minute are the affairs of the chancellor. at one time he is concerned with the taverners. he summons them all before him, and makes them swear that in future they will brew wholesome beer, and that they will supply the students with enough of it; at another he imprisons a butcher who has been selling "putrid and fetid" meat, or a baker who has been using false weights; at another banishes a carpenter for shooting at the proctors, or sends a woman to the pillory for being an incorrigible prostitute or to bocardo for the mediæval fault of being a common and intolerable scold. next he fines the vicar of s. giles' for breaking the peace, and confiscates his club. then he dispatches the organist of all souls' to bocardo, for thomas bentlee has committed adultery. but the poor man weeps so bitterly, that the warden of that college is moved to have good hope of the said thomas, and goes surety for him, and the "organ-player" is released after three hours of incarceration. the punishment of a friar who is charged with having uttered a gross libel in a sermon, and has refused to appear when cited before the chancellor's court, is more severe. he is degraded in congregation and banished. the jurisdiction which we have seen the chancellor wielding in this court had not been always his, and it was acquired not without dust and heat. at the beginning of the thirteenth century he was both in fact and in theory the delegate of the bishop of the diocese; not the presiding head, but an external authority who might be invoked to enforce the decrees of the masters' guild. before that time the organisation of the university extended at least so far as to boast of a "master of the schools," who was probably elected by the masters themselves, and whose office was very likely merged into that of the chancellor. as an ecclesiastical judge, deriving his authority from the bishop of lincoln, the chancellor exercised jurisdiction over students by virtue of their being "clerks," not members of the university. over laymen he exercised jurisdiction only so far as they were subject to the authority of the ordinary ecclesiastical courts. at oxford he had no prison or cathedral dungeon to which he could commit delinquents. he was obliged to send them either to the king's prison in the castle, or to the town prison over the bocardo gate. but from this time forward by a series of steps, prepared as a rule by conflicts between town and gown, the office of chancellor was gradually raised. first it encroached on the liberties of the town, and then shook itself free of its dependence on the see of lincoln. the protection of the great, learned and powerful bishop of lincoln and the fact that, in the last resort, the masters were always ready to stop lecturing and withdraw with all the students to another town, for the university, as such, had not yet acquired any property to tie them to oxford, were weapons which proved of overwhelming advantage to the university at this early stage of its existence. again and again we find that, when a dispute as to police jurisdiction or authority arose between the university and the town, pressure was brought to bear in this way. the masters ceased to lecture; the students threatened to shake the dust of oxford off their feet; the enthusiastic grossetete, throwing aside the cares of state, the business of his bishopric, and the task of translating the ethics of aristotle, came forward to intervene on behalf of his darling university and to use his influence with the king. the pope, innocent iv. ( ), was also induced to take the university under his protection. he confirmed its "immunities and liberties and laudable, ancient and rational customs from whomsoever received," and called upon the bishops of london and salisbury to guard it from evil. against the combined forces of the church, the crown, and the evident interests of their own pockets, it was a foregone conclusion that the citizens would not be able to maintain the full exercise of their municipal liberty. it was in that the first important extension of the chancellor's jurisdiction was made. some students had made a raid upon jewry and sacked the houses of their creditors. they were committed to prison by the civil authorities. grossetete insisted on their being handed over to the ecclesiastical jurisdiction. as the outcome of this riot henry iii. presently issued a decree of great importance. by it all disputes concerning debts, rents and prices, and all other "contracts of moveables," in which one party was an oxford clerk, were referred to the chancellor for trial. this new power raised him at once to a position very different from that which he had hitherto enjoyed as the mere representative of the bishop of lincoln. "he was invested henceforth with a jurisdiction which no legate or bishop could confer and no civil judge could annul." a charter followed in , which authorised the chancellor and proctors to assist at the assaying of bread and beer by the mayor and bailiffs. on admission to office the latter were required to swear to respect the liberties and customs of the university, and the town, in its corporate capacity, was made responsible for injuries inflicted on scholars. the chancellor's jurisdiction was still further extended in . to his spiritual power, which he held according to the ordinary ecclesiastical law and to the civil jurisdiction conferred upon him in , a new charter now added the criminal jurisdiction even over laymen, for breach of the peace. by this charter henry iii. provided that, "for the peace, tranquillity and advantage of the university of scholars of oxford, there be chosen four aldermen and eight discreet and legal burghers associated with them, to assist the mayors and bailiffs to keep the peace and hold the assizes and to seek out malefactors and disturbers of the peace and night-vagabonds, and harbourers of robbers. two officers shall also be elected in each parish to make diligent search for persons of suspicious character, and every one who takes a stranger in under his roof for more than three nights must be held responsible for him. no retail dealer may buy victuals on their way to market or buy anything with the view of selling again before nine in the morning, under penalty of forfeit and fine. if a layman assault a clerk, let him be immediately arrested, and if the assault prove serious, let him be imprisoned in the castle and detained there untill he give satisfaction to the clerk in accordance with the judgment of the chancellor and the university. if a clerk shall make a grave or outrageous assault upon a layman, let him be imprisoned in the aforesaid castle untill the chancellor demand his surrender; if the offence be a light one, let him be confined in the town prison untill he be set free by the chancellor. "brewers and bakers are not to be punished for the first offence (of adulteration or other tradesman's tricks); but shall forfeit their stock on the second occasion, and for the third offence be put in the pillory." (one of these "hieroglyphic state machines" stood opposite the cross inn at carfax; another, with stocks and gallows, at the corner of longwall and holywell streets. in the former one tubb was the last man to stand ( ), for perjury, though not the last to deserve it.) "every baker," the charter continues, "must have his own stamp and stamp his own bread so that it may be known whose bread it is; every one who brews for sale must show his sign, or forfeit his beer. wine must be sold to laymen and clerks on the same terms. the assay of bread and ale is to be made half yearly, and at the assay the chancellor or his deputy appointed for that purpose must be present; otherwise the assay shall be invalid." a few years later a royal writ of edward i. ( ) conferred on the chancellor the cognizance of all personal actions whatever wherein either party was a scholar, be he prosecutor or defendant. and in , by judgment of king and parliament, after a conflict between the town and university, when a bailiff had resisted the authority of the chancellor in the students' playground, beaumont fields, which embraced the university park and s. giles', the chancellor obtained jurisdiction in case of all crimes committed in oxford, where one of the parties was a scholar, except pleas of homicide and mayhem. his jurisdiction over the king's bailiffs was affirmed, but leave was granted them to apply to the king's court if aggrieved by the chancellor's proceedings. from this time forward the authority of the chancellor was gradually increased and extended. it was, indeed, not long before the office shook itself free from its historical subordination to the bishop of lincoln. after a considerable struggle over the point, the bishop was worsted by a papal bull ( ), which entirely abrogated his claim to confirm the chancellor elect. since that time the university has enjoyed the right of electing and admitting its highest officer without reference to any superior authority whatever (maxwell lyte). the precinct of the university was defined in the reign of henry iv. as extending to the hospital of s. bartholomew on the east, to botley on the west, to godstow on the north, and to bagley wood on the south. these were the geographical limits of the university, and within them the following classes of people were held ( ) to be "of the privilege of the university":--the chancellor, all doctors, masters and other graduates, and all students, scholars and clerks of every order and degree. these constituted a formidable number in themselves when arrayed against the town, for there were probably at least of them at the most flourishing periods. the archbishop of armagh indeed stated confidently at avignon ( ) that there had once been , , but that must have been a rhetorical exaggeration. there can never have been more than . but in addition to this army of scholars, all their "daily continual servants," all "barbers, manciples, spencers, cokes, lavenders," and all the numerous persons who were engaged in trades ancillary to study, such as the preparation, engrossing, illumination and binding of parchment, were "of the privilege" and directly controlled by the university. in what was afterwards known as schools street all these trades were represented as early as . over these classes, and within the limits defined, the jurisdiction of the chancellor was by the end of the fifteenth century established supreme. citizens and scholars alike had now to be careful how they lived. the stocks, the pillory and the cucking stool awaited offenders among the townsmen, fines or banishment the students who transgressed. local governments in the middle ages were excessively paternal. they inquired closely into the ways of their people and dealt firmly with their peccadilloes. did a man brew or sell bad beer he was burnt alive at nürnberg; at oxford he was condemned to the pillory; if a manciple was too fond of cards he was also punished by the chancellor's court. a regular tariff was framed of penalties for those breaches of the peace and street brawls, in which not freshmen only but heads of houses and vicars of parishes were so frequently involved. endeavours were made to promote a proper standard of life by holding "general inquisitions" at regular intervals. the town was divided into sections, and a doctor of theology and two masters of arts were told off to inquire into the morals of the inhabitants of each division. juries of citizens were summoned, and gave evidence on oath to these delegate judges who sat in the parish churches. the characters of their fellow-townsmen were critically discussed. reports were made to the chancellor, who corrected the offenders. excommunication, penance or the cucking stool were meted out to "no common" scolds, notorious evil-livers and those who kept late hours. it had formerly been enacted ( ) that since the absence of the chancellor was the cause of many perils, his office should become vacant if he were to absent himself from the university for a month during full term. but in the course of the fifteenth century the chancellor changed from a biennial and resident official to a permanent and non-resident one. he was chosen now for his power as a friend at court, and by the court, as it grew more despotic and ecclesiastically minded, he was used as an agent for coercing the university. to-day the chancellorship is a merely honorary office, usually bestowed on successful politicians. the chancellor appoints a vice-chancellor, but usage compels him to appoint heads of houses in order of seniority. this right of appointment dates from the time when the duke of wellington, as chancellor, dispensed with the formality of asking convocation for its assent to the appointment of his nominee. having sketched thus far the development of the office which represents the power and dignity of the university, we may now turn to consider the position of the young apprentices from their earliest initiation into this guild of learning. the scholars of mediæval universities were your true cosmopolitans. they passed freely from the university of one country to that of another by virtue of the freemasonry of knowledge. despising the dangers of the sea, the knight-errants of learning went from country to country, like the bee, to use the metaphor applied by s. athanasius to s. anthony, in order to obtain the best instruction in every school. they went without let or hindrance, with no passport but the desire to learn, to paris, like john of salisbury, stephen langton or thomas becket, if they were attracted by the reputation of that university in theology; to bologna, if they wished to sit at the feet of some famous lecturer in civil law. emperors issued edicts for their safe conduct and protection when travelling in their dominions--even when warring against the scots, edward iii. issued general letters of protection for all scottish scholars who desired to repair to oxford or cambridge--and when they arrived at their destination, of whatever nationality they might be, they found there as a rule little colonies of their own countrymen already established and ready to receive them. dante was as much at home in the straw-strewn schools street in paris as he would have found himself at padua or at oxford, had he chanced to study there. it has indeed been suggested that he did study there in the year . like chaucer, he may have done so, but probably did not. there is certainly a reference to westminster in the "inferno" (xii. ); but it is not necessary to go to oxford in order to learn that london and westminster are on the banks of the thames. in attending lectures at a strange university the mediæval students had no difficulty in understanding the language of their teachers. for all the learned world spoke latin. latin was the volapuk of the middle ages. mediæval latin, with all its faults and failing sense of style, is a language not dead, but living in a green old age, written by men who on literary matters talked and thought in a speech that is lively and free and fertile in vocabulary. the common use of it among all educated men gave authors like erasmus a public which consisted of the whole civilised world, and it rendered scholars cosmopolitan in a sense almost inconceivable to the student of to-day. that was chiefly in the earlier days of universities. gradually, with the growth of national feeling and the more definite demarcation of nations and the ever-increasing sense of patriotism, that higher form of selfishness, cosmopolitanism went out of fashion. nowadays only two classes of cosmopolitans survive--in theory, free traders, and in practice, thieves. i have spoken of the dangers of the sea; they were very great in those days of open sailing boats, when the compass was unknown; but the dangers of land-travelling were hardly less. the roads through the forests that lay around oxford were notoriously unsafe, not only in mediæval days but even a hundred years ago. armed therefore, and if possible in companies, the students would ride on their oxford pilgrimage. if they could not afford to ride, the mediæval pedagogue, the common carrier, would take them to their destination for a charge of fivepence a day. for there were carriers who took a regular route at the beginning of every university year for the purpose of bringing students up from the country. they would have a mixed company of all ages in their care. for though students went up to oxford as a rule between the ages of thirteen and sixteen, many doubtless were younger and many older. it was indeed a common thing for ecclesiastics of all ages to obtain leave of absence from their benefices in order to go up to the university and study canon law or theology there. you can fancy, then, this motley assembly of pack-horses and parish priests, of clever lads chosen from the monasteries or grammar schools, and ambitious lads from the plough, all very genuine philosophers, lovers of learning for its own sake or its advantages, working their way through the miry roads, passed occasionally by some nobleman's son with his imposing train of followers, and passing others yet more lowly, who were just trudging it on foot, begging their way, their bundles on their shoulders. you can fancy them at last coming over shotover hill, down the "horse path" past s. clement's, and so reaching safely their journey's end. once in oxford, they would take up their abode in a monastery to which they had an introduction; in a college, if, thanks to the fortune of birth or education, they had been elected to share in the benefits of a foundation; as menials attached to the household of some wealthier student, if they were hard put to it; in a hall or house licensed to take in lodgers, if they were foreigners or independent youths. on taking up his residence in one of these halls, the mediæval student would find that alma mater, in her struggles with the townsmen, had been fighting his battles. lest he should fall among thieves, it had been provided that the rents charged should be fixed by a board of assessors; lest the sudden influx of this floating population should produce scarcity, and therefore starvation prices, the transactions of the retailers were carefully regulated. they were forbidden to buy up provisions from the farmers outside the city, and so establish a "corner"; they were forbidden even to buy in oxford market till a certain hour in the morning. the prices of vendibles were fixed in the interests of the poor students. thus in the king ordained that "a good living ox, stalled or corn-fed, should be sold for s., and no higher; if fatted with grass for s. a fat cow, s. a fat hog of two years old, s. d. a fat mutton, corn-fed or whose wool is not grown, s. d. a fat mutton shorn, s. d. a fat goose, d. a fat hen or two chickens, one penny. four pigeons or twenty-four eggs, one penny." the halls were, at any rate originally, merely private houses adapted to the use of students. a common room for meals, a kitchen and a few bedrooms were all they had to boast. many of them had once belonged to jews, for they were large and built of stone. and the jews, being wealthy, had introduced a higher standard of comfort into oxford, and at the same time, being a common sort of prey, they probably found that stone houses were safer as well as more luxurious. moysey's hall and lombard's hall bore in their names evident traces of their origin. other halls derived their names from other causes. after the great fire in the citizens, in imitation of the londoners, and the jews, had rebuilt their houses of stone. [illustration: s. alban's hall merton college] "such tenements," says wood, "were for the better distinction from others called stone or tiled halls. some of those halls that were not slated were, if standing near those that were, stiled thatched halls. likewise when glass came into fashion, for before that time our windows were only latticed, that hall that had its windows first glazed was stiled, for difference sake, glazen hall. in like manner 'tis probable that those that had leaden gutters, or any part of their roofs of lead were stiled leaden hall, or in one instance leaden porch. those halls also that had staples to their doors, for our predecessors used only latch and catch, were written staple halls." other halls were called after their owners (peckwater's inn, alban hall, etc.), or from their position in the street or town, or the patron saint of a neighbouring church (s. edward's hall, s. mary's entry); many from other physical peculiarities besides those we have mentioned. angle hall, broadgates hall, white hall and black hall explain themselves easily enough, whilst chimney hall is a name which recalls the days when a large chimney was a rarity, a louvre above a charcoal fire in the middle of the room being sufficient to carry off the smoke. other halls, again, were named after signs that hung outside them, or over their gateways, like ordinary inns or shops. the towering and barbaric inn-signs always struck foreigners, when first visiting england, with astonishment not unmingled with dismay. they were thus probably thrown into a proper state of mind to receive their bills. the eagle, the lion, the elephant, the saracen's head, the brazen nose and the swan were some of the signs in oxford. there are a few survivals from this menagerie. the star inn, now the clarendon, was built on the site of one of these old halls, and the richly-carved wooden gables were visible in the house next to it. the roebuck was once coventry hall. the mitre preserved traces of burwaldscote hall. the angel had similar traces, but the angel itself has now given place to the new schools. many students, however, lodged singly in private houses. chaucer's _poor scholar_ lodged with a carpenter who worked for the abbot of osney. "a chamber had he in that hostelrie, alone, withouten any compagnie, ful fetisly ydight with herbes sote."... halls, it will have been observed, were known also by the name of entries and inns or (deriving from the french) hostels. and that in fact is what they were. the principal, who might originally have been the senior student of a party who had taken a house in which to study, or the owner of the house himself, derived a good income from keeping a boarding-house of this kind. he was responsible to the university for the good conduct of his men, and to his men, one must suppose, for their comfort. the position of principal was soon much sought after, and the ownership of a good hostel, with a good connection, would fetch a price like a public-house to-day. it was found necessary, however, to decree that the principal of a hall should be a master, and should not cater for the other inmates. payments for food were therefore made by the students to an upper servant, known as a manciple, whose duty it was to go to market in the morning and there buy provisions for the day, before the admission of the retail-dealers at nine o'clock. the amount which each student contributed to the common purse for the purchase of provisions was known as "commons." it varied from eight to eighteen pence a week. extra food obtained from the manciple to be eaten in private was called "battels." the principal could only maintain his position and fill his hall if he satisfied the students. the government of these halls was therefore highly democratic. a new principal could only succeed if he was accepted by the general opinion of the inmates and received their voluntary allegiance. on coming up to oxford the student, however little he might intend to devote his life to the church, adopted, if he had not done so before, clerical tonsure and clerical garb. by so doing he became entitled to all the immunities and privileges of the clerical order. he was, now, so long as he did not marry, exempt from the secular courts, and his person was inviolable. no examination or ceremony of any kind seems to have been required in order to become a member of the university. attendance at lectures, after a declaration made to a resident master to the effect that the student purposed to attend them, was enough to entitle him to the privileges of that corporation. the germ of the modern system of matriculation may perhaps be traced in the statute ( ), which required that all scholars and scholars' servants, who had attained years of discretion, should swear before the chancellor that they would observe the statutes for the repression of riots and disorders. among the students themselves, however, some form of initiation probably took place, comparable to that of the bejaunus, or yellow-bill, in germany, or of the young soldier, the young freemason, or the newcomer at an _atelier_ in paris to-day. horseplay at the expense of the raw youth, and much chaff and tomfoolery, would be followed in good time by a supper for which the freshman would obligingly pay. initiation of this kind is a universal taste, and, if kept within bounds, is not a bad custom for testing the temper and grit of the new members of a community. at oxford, then, freshmen were subject to certain customs at the hands of the senior scholars, or sophisters, on their first coming. so wood tells us, but he cannot give details. he compares the ceremony, however, to the "salting" which obtained in his own day. of this salting, as it was practised at merton, he gives the following account:-- "on feast days charcoal fires were lit in the hall of merton, and between five and six in the afternoon the senior undergraduates would bring in the freshmen, and make them sit down on a form in the middle of the hall. which done, everyone in order was to speak some pretty apothegm or make a jest or bull or speak some eloquent nonsense, to make the company laugh. but if any of the freshmen came off dull, or not cleverly, some of the forward or pragmatical seniors would _tuck_ them, that is, set the nail of their thumb to their chin just under the lower lip, and by the help of their other fingers under the chin, would give him a mark which would sometimes produce blood." on shrove tuesday a brass pot was set before the fire filled with cawdle by the college cook at the freshmen's expense. then each of them had to pluck off his gown and band and if possible make himself look like a scoundrel. 'which done they were conducted each after the other to the high table, made to stand upon a form and to deliver a speech.' wood gives us the speech he himself made on this occasion, a dreary piece of facetiousness. as a 'kitten of the muses and meer frog of helicon he croaked cataracts of plumbeous cerebrosity.' "the reward for a good speech was a cup of cawdle and no salted drink, for an indifferent one some cawdle and some salted drink, and for a bad one, besides the tucks, nothing but college beer and salt. "when these ceremonies were over the senior cook administered an oath over an old shoe to those about to be admitted into the fraternity. the freshman repeated the oath, kissed the shoe, put on his gown and band and took his place among the seniors." when the freshmen of the past year were solemnly made seniors, and probationers were admitted fellows, similar ceremonies took place. at all souls', for instance, on th january, those who were to be admitted fellows were brought from their chambers in the middle of the night, sometimes in a bucket slung on a pole, and so led about the college and into the hall, whilst some of the junior fellows, disguised perhaps, would sing a song in praise of the mallard, some verses of which i give: "the griffin, bustard, turkey and capon, let other hungry mortals gape on, and on their bones with stomachs fall hard, but let all souls' men have the mallard. hough the blood of king edward, by the blood of king edward, it was a swapping, swapping mallard. "the romans once admired a gander more than they did their best commander, because he saved, if some don't fool us, the place that's named from the scull of tolus. hough the blood of king edward, by the blood of king edward, it was a swapping, swapping mallard. "then let us drink and dance a galliard in the remembrance of the mallard, and as the mallard doth in the pool, let's dabble, dive and duck in bowle.[ ] hough, etc." in any attempt to appreciate the kind and character of the mediæval students and the life which they led, it is necessary first of all to realise that the keynote of the early student life was poverty. it was partly for the benefit of poor scholars and partly for the benefit of their founders' souls, for which these scholars should pray, that the early colleges and chantries were founded. morals, learning and poverty were the qualifications for a fellowship on durham's foundation. poverty, "the stepmother of learning," it is which the university in its letters and petitions always and truly represents as the great hindrance to the student "seeking in the vineyard of the lord the pearl of knowledge." books these poor seekers could not afford to buy, fees they could scarce afford to pay, food itself was none too plentiful. but the pearl for which the young student as he sat, pinched and blue, at the feet of his teacher in the schools, and the masters of arts, "when, in forlorn and naked chambers cooped and crowded, o'er the ponderous books they hung," alike were searching, was a pearl of great price. for learning spelt success. there was through learning a career open to the talents. the lowliest and neediest might rise, by means of a university education, to the highest dignity which the church, and that was also the world, could offer. for all great civilians were ecclesiastics. the church embraced all the professions; and the professors of all arts, of medicine, statesmanship or architecture, of diplomacy and even of law, embraced the church. and the reward of success in any of them was ecclesiastical promotion and a fat benefice. the university opened the door to the church, with all its dazzling possibilities of preferment, and the university itself was thrown open to the poorest by the system of the monastic houses and charitable foundations. promising lads, too, of humble origin were often maintained at the schools by wealthy patrons. from a villein one might rise to be a clerk, from a clerk become a master of the university--a fellow, a bursar, a bishop and a chancellor, first of oxford, then of england. at the university, of course, the students were not treated with the same absolute equality that they are now, regardless of birth or wealth. sons of noblemen did not study there, unless they had a strong bent in that direction. the days were not yet come when a university training was valuable as a social and moral as well as an intellectual education: when noblemen, therefore, did attend the schools, more was made of them. they wore hoods lined with rich fur, and enjoyed certain privileges with regard to the taking of degrees. like those idyllic islanders who lived by taking in each other's washing, the masters supported themselves on the fees paid by the students who attended their lectures, whilst the poorest students earned a livelihood by waiting on the masters, or wealthier students. servitors, who thus combined the careers of undergraduates with those of "scouts," continued in existence till the end of the eighteenth century. they were sent on the most menial errands or employed to transcribe manuscripts, and five shillings was deemed an ample allowance for their services. whitfield was a servitor, and the father of the wesleys also. such students, lads of low extraction, drawn from the tap-room or the plough, but of promising parts, would be helped by the chests which we have described, and which were founded for their benefit. when long vacation came, they would turn again from intellectual to manual labour. for long vacation meant for them, not reading-parties, but the harvest, and in the harvest they could earn wages. but there was another method of obtaining the means to attend lectures at the university which was popularised in the middle ages by the mendicants, by the theory of the poverty of christ and by the insistence of the church on the duty of charity. this was begging on the highway. "pain por dieu aus escoliers" was a well-known "street cry" in mediæval paris, and in england during vacations the wandering scholar, "often, starting from some covert place, saluted the chance comer on the road, crying, 'an obolus, a penny give to a poor scholar.'" and as they made their way along the high-road a party of such begging scholars would come perhaps to a rich man's house, and ask for aid by prayer and song. sometimes they would be put to the test as to their scholarship by being commanded to make a couplet of latin verses on some topic. they would scratch their heads, look wistfully at one another and produce a passable verse or two. then they would receive their reward and pass on. so popular, indeed, did this system become, that begging students had to be restricted. only those licensed by the chancellor and certified as deserving cases, like the scholars of aristotle's hall in , were presently permitted to beg. where poverty was so prevalent, the standard of comfort was not likely to be high. the enormous advance in the general level of material comfort, and even luxury, which has taken place in this country during the last hundred years, makes it difficult to describe the comfortless lives of these early students without giving an exaggerated idea of the sacrifices they were making and the hardships they were enduring for the sake of setting their feet on the first rung of this great ladder of learning. but it should be remembered that, as far as the ordinary appliances of decency and comfort, as we understand them, are concerned, the labourer's cottage in these days is better supplied than was a palace in those when princes "at matins froze and couched at curfew time," and when "lovers of truth, by penury constrained bucer, erasmus or melancthon, read before the doors or windows of their cells by moonshine, through mere lack of taper light." if we realise that this was the case, we shall not be surprised to find that the rooms in which these students and masters lived, so far from being spacious and luxurious, were small, dingy, overcrowded and excessively uncomfortable. it was rare for a student to have a room to himself--"alone, withouten any compagnie." the usual arrangement in halls and colleges would seem to have been that two or more scholars shared a room, and slept in that part of it which was not occupied by the "studies" of the inhabitants. for each scholar would have a "study" of his own adjoining the windows, where he might strain to catch the last ray of daylight. a "study" was a movable piece of furniture, a sort of combination of book-shelf and desk, which probably survives in the winchester "toys." the students shared a room, and they frequently shared a bed too. the founder of magdalen provided that in his college demies under the age of fifteen should sleep two in a bed. and in addition to their beds and lodgings, the poorest students were obliged to share an academical gown also. friends who had all things in common, might sleep at the same time, but could only attend lectures one by one, for lack of more than one gown amongst them. to these straits, it is said, s. richard was reduced. but such deprivation accentuates rather than spoils the happiness of student life, as anyone who is acquainted with the quartier latin will agree. when the heart is young and generous, when the spirit is free and the blood is hot, what matters hardship when there are comrades bright and brave to share it; what matters poverty when the riches of art and love and learning are being outspread before your eyes; what matters the misery of circumstance, when daily the young traveller can wander forth, silent, amazed, into "the realms of gold?" during the many centuries that the mansions of the wealthy and the palaces of princes were totally unprovided with the most indispensable appliances of domestic decency, it is not to be expected that the rooms of students should prove to be plentifully or luxuriously furnished. we know the stock-in-trade of chaucer's poor student: "his almageste and bokes grete and smale his astrelabie, longinge for his art, his augrim-stones layen faire apart on shelves couched at his beddes heed; his presse y-covered with a falding reed. and al above ther lay a gay sautrye on which he made a nightes melodye so swetely, that all the chambre rong; and angelus ad virginem he song." we can supplement chaucer's inventory of a poor student's furniture by an examination of old indentures. therein we find specified among the goods of such an one just such a fithele or "gay sautrye" as chaucer noted, an old cithara or a broken lute, a desk, a stool, a chair, a mattress, a coffer, a tripod table, a mortar and pestle, a sword and an old gown. another student might boast the possession of a hatchet, a table "quinque pedum cum uno legge," some old wooden dishes, a pitcher and a bowl, an iron twister, a brass pot with a broken leg, a pair of knives, and, most prized of all, a bow and twenty arrows. few could boast of so many "bokes at his beddes heed" as chaucer's clerk of oxenford. manuscripts were of immense value in those days, and we need hardly be surprised if that worthy philosopher, seeing that he had invested his money in twenty volumes clad in black and red, had but little gold remaining in his coffer. the books that we find mentioned in such indentures, are those which formed the common stock of mediæval learning, volumes of homilies, the works of boethius, ovid's _de remedio amoris_ and a book of geometry. these and other books, as articles of the highest intrinsic value, were always mentioned in detail in the last will and testament of a dying scholar. but, as the modern artist, on his death-bed in the quartier latin, summoned his dearest friend to his side and exclaimed, "my friend, i leave you my wife and my pipe. take care of my pipe"; so the mediæval student would often feel that though his books might be his most valuable legacy in some eyes, his bow and arrows, his cap and gown or his mantle, "blodii coloris," these were the truest pledges of affection that he could bequeath to the comrade of his heart. only the wealthier students, or the higher officials of the university, rejoiced in such luxuries as a change of clothes, or could reckon among their furniture several forms or chairs, a pair of snuffers and bellows. for of what use to the ordinary student were candlesticks and snuffers, when candles cost the prohibitive price of twopence a pound; or what should he do with bellows and tongs when a stove or fire was out of the question, save in the case of a principal? to run about in order not to go to bed with cold feet was the plan of the mediæval student, unless he anticipated the advice of mr jorrocks and thought of ginger. from his slumbers on a flock bed, in such quarters as i have described, the mediæval student roused him with the dawn. for lectures began with the hour of prime, soon after daybreak. he was soon dressed, for men seldom changed their clothes in those days, and in the centuries when the manuals of gallantry recommended the nobleman to wash his hands once a day and his face almost as often, when a charming queen like margaret of navarre, could remark without shame that she had not washed her hands for eight days, it is not to be expected that the ablutions of a mere student should be frequent or extensive. washing is a modern habit, and not widespread. to attend a "chapel" or a "roll-call" is the first duty of the modern undergraduate, but a daily attendance at mass was not required till the college system had taken shape; the statutes of new college, in fact, are the first to enforce it. all therefore that the yawning student had to do, before making his way to the lecture-room in the hall of his inn or college, or in the long low buildings of schools street, was to break his fast, if he could afford to do so, with a piece of bread and a pot o' the smallest ale from the "buttery." as a lecture lasted, not the one hour of a "stunde," but for two or three hours, some such support would be highly desirable, but not necessary. our forefathers were one-meal men, like the germans of to-day. civilisation is an advance from breakfast to dinner, from one meal a day to several. late dinner is the goal towards which all humanity presses. for dinner-time, as de quincey observed, has little connection with the idea of dinner. it has travelled through every hour, like the hand of a clock, from nine or ten in the morning till ten at night. but at oxford it travelled slowly. hearne growls at the colleges which, in , altered their dinner hour from eleven to twelve, "from people's lying in bed longer than they used to do." happily for him he did not live to see the beginning of the nineteenth century, when those colleges which had dined at three advanced to four, and those that had dined at four to five; or the close of it, when the hour of seven became the accepted time. the mediæval student took his one meal at ten or eleven in the morning. soup thickened with oatmeal, baked meat and bread was his diet, varied by unwholesome salt fish in lent. these viands were served in hall on wooden trenches and washed down by a tankard of college beer. during the meal a chapter of the bible or of some improving work in latin was read aloud, and at its conclusion the founder's prayer and a latin grace would be said. conversation, it was usually ordained, might only be carried on in latin; the modern student, on the contrary, is "sconced" (fined a tankard of beer) if he speaks three words of "shop" in hall. after dinner perhaps some disputations or exercises, some repetition and discussion of the morning's lecture would be held in hall, or the students would take the air, walking out two and two, as the founders directed, if they were good; going off singly, or in parties to poach or hawk or spoil for a row, if they were not. lectures or disputations were resumed about noon. seated on benches, or more usually and properly, according to the command of urban v., sitting on the rush-strewn floors of the school-room, the young seekers after knowledge listened to the words of wisdom that flowed from the regent master, who sat above them at a raised desk, dressed in full academical costume. literally, they sat at the feet of their gamaliels. in the schools they were enjoined to "sit as quiet as a girl," but they were far from observing this injunction. old and young were only too ready to quarrel or to play during lectures, to shout and interrupt whilst the master was reading the sentences of peter lombard, and bang the benches with their books to express their approval or disapproval of his comments thereon. supper came at five, and after that perhaps a visit to the playing fields of beaumont or a tavern, where wine would be mingled with song, and across the oaken tables would thunder those rousing choruses that students ever love: "mihi est propositum in taberna mori vinum sit appositum morientis ori, ut dicant, quum venerint, angelorum chori, 'deus sit propitius huic potatori.'" when curfew rang at length, all the students would assemble in hall and have a "drinking" or "collation." then, before going to bed, they would sing the antiphon of the virgin (salve regina), and so the day was finished. a dull, monotonous day it seems to us, varied only by sermons--and there was no lack of them--at s. mary's or s. peter's in the east, with the chance excitement of hearing a friar recant the unorthodox views he had expressed the previous sunday; but it was a day that was bright and social compared with the ordinary conditions of the time. in this daily round, so far as one has been able to reconstruct it, the absence of any provision for physical recreation is a noticeable thing to us, who have exchanged the mediæval enthusiasm for learning for an enthusiasm for athletics. both are excellent things in their way, but as the governor of an american state remarked when defending the practice of smoking over wine, both together are better than either separate. and nowadays in some cases the combination is happily attained. but in an age which inherited the monkish tradition of the vileness of the body and the need of mortifying it, games of all sorts were regarded as a weakness of the flesh. so far were founders from making any provision for recreation, that they usually went out of their way to prohibit it. games with bat and ball, and tennis, that is, or fives, were strictly forbidden as indecent, though in some cases students were permitted to play with a soft ball in the college courts. but "deambulation in the college grove" was the monastic ideal. nor did the founders frown only on exercise; amusements of the most harmless sort were also under their ban. on the long, cold, dark winter evenings the students were naturally tempted to linger in the hall after supper, to gather round the fire, if there was one, in the middle of the room, beneath the louvre, to tell tales there and sing carols, to read poems, chronicles of the realm or wonders of the world. but it was only on the eve of a festival that william of wykeham would allow this relaxation in his foundation. the members of trinity college were allowed to play cards in hall on holidays only, "but on no account for money." mummers, the chief source of amusement among the mediævals, were only permitted to enter new college once a year, on twelfth night. it was not till the dawn of the renaissance that plays began to be acted in the colleges and halls, and to bring the academic intellect into touch with the views and literature of the people. not only was it forbidden to play marbles on the college steps, but even the hard exercise of chess was prohibited as a "noxious, inordinate and unhonest game." and the keeping of dogs and hawks was anathema. by a survival of this mediæval view, the undergraduate is still solemnly warned by the statute book against playing any game which may cause injury to others; he is urged to refrain from hunting wild beasts with ferrets, nets or hounds, from hawking, "necnon ab omni apparatu et gestatione bombardarum et arcubalistarum." in the same way he is forbidden still to carry arms of any sort by day or night, unless it be bows and arrows for purposes of honest amusement. but to these injunctions, i fear, as to the accompanying threat of punishment at the discretion of the vice-chancellor, he does not pay over much attention. he does not consider them very seriously when he plays football or hunts with the "bicester," takes a day's shooting or runs with the christ church beagles. the restrictions which i have quoted above were mostly introduced by the founders of colleges. so far as the university was concerned, the private life of the student was hardly interfered with at all. the offence of night-walking, indeed, was repressed by the proctor who patrolled the streets with a pole-axe and bulldogs (armed attendants), but the student might frequent the taverns and drink as he pleased. his liberty was almost completely unrestricted, except as to the wearing of academic dress, the attendance of lectures and the observance of the curfew bell. offences against morality and order were treated as a rule, when they were dealt with at all, with amazing leniency. murder was regarded as a very venial crime; drunkenness and loose-living as hardly matters for university police. a student who committed murder was usually banished, and banishment after all meant to him little more than changing his seat of learning. the punishment, though it might cause inconvenience, did not amount to more than being compelled to go to cambridge. fines, excommunication and imprisonment were the other punishments inflicted for offences; corporal punishment was but seldom imposed by the university. but with the growth of the college system the bonds of discipline were tightened. not only did the statutes provide in the greatest detail for the punishment of undergraduate offences, stating the amount of the fine to be exacted for throwing a missile at a master and missing, and the larger amount for aiming true, but also the endowment of the scholar made it easy to collect the fine. the wardens and fellows, too, were in a stronger position than the principal of a hall, who owed his place to his popularity with the students, who, if he ceased to please them, might leave his hall and remove to another house where the principal was more lenient and could be relied upon to wink at their follies and their vices, even if he did not share them. thus the founders of the early colleges were enabled to enforce upon the recipients of their bounty something of the rigour and decency of monastic discipline. as the system grew the authority entrusted to the heads of colleges was increased, and the position of the undergraduate was reduced to that of the earlier grammar-school boy. the statutes of b.n.c. ( ) rendered the undergraduate liable to be birched at the discretion of the college lecturer. he might now be flogged if he had not prepared his lessons; if he played, laughed or talked in lecture; if he made odious comparisons, or spoke english; if he were unpunctual, disobedient or did not attend chapel. wolsey allowed the students of cardinal college to be flogged up to the age of twenty. impositions by a dean were apparently a sixteenth-century invention. then we find offending fellows who had played inordinately at hazard or cards, or earned a reputation for being notorious fighters or great frequenters of taverns, being ordered to read in their college libraries for a fortnight from to a.m. and the loss of a month's commons occasionally rewarded the insolence of undergraduates who did not duly cap and give way to their seniors, or who, yielding to that desire to adorn their persons which the mediæval student shared with his gaudy-waistcoated successors, wore "long undecent[ ] hair," and cloth of no clerical hue, slashed doublets and boots and spurs beneath their gowns. as to the academic career of the mediæval student; the course of his studies and "disputations" in the schools; the steps by which the "general sophister" became a "determining bachelor" and the bachelor, if he wished to teach, took a master's degree, first obtaining the chancellor's licence to lecture, and then, on the occasion of his "inception," when he "commenced master" and first undertook his duty of teaching in the schools, being received into the fraternity of teaching masters by the presiding master of his faculty--of these ceremonies and their significance and the traces of them which survive in modern academic life, as of the high feastings and banquetings with which, as in the trade guilds, the new apprentices and masters entertained their faculties, i have no space here to treat. the inceptor besides undertaking not to lecture at stamford, recognise any university but oxford and cambridge, or maintain lollard opinions, was also required to swear to wear a habit suitable to his degree. as an undergraduate he had had no academical dress, except that, as every member of the university was supposed to be a clerk, he was expected to wear the tonsure and clerical habit. the characteristic of this was that the outer garment must be of a certain length and closed in front. it was the cut and not the colour of the "cloth" which was at first considered important. but later regulations restricted the colour to black, and insisted that this garment must reach to the knees. in the colleges, however, it was only parti-coloured garments that were regarded as secular, and the "liveries" mentioned by the founders were usually clothes of the clerical cut but of uniform colour. the fellows of queen's, for instance, were required to wear blood-red. the colour of the liveries was not usually prescribed by statute, but differences of colour and ornament still survive at cambridge as badges of different colleges. the masters at first wore the cappa, which was the ordinary out-door full-dress of the secular clergy. and this "cope," with a border and hood of minever, came to be the official academical costume. the shape of the masters' cappa soon became stereotyped and distinctive; then a cappa with sleeves was adopted as the uniform of bachelors. as to the hood, it was the material of which it was made--minever--which distinguished the master, not the hood itself; for a hood was part of the ordinary clerical attire. bachelors of all faculties wore hoods of lamb's-wool or rabbit's-fur, but undergraduates were deprived of the right of wearing a hood in --nisi liripipium consuetum ... et non contextum--the little black stuff hood, worn by sophisters in the schools till within living memory. the cappa went out of use amongst the oxford m.a.'s during the sixteenth century. the regents granted themselves wholesale dispensations from its use. stripped of this formal, outer robe, the toga was revealed, the unofficial cassock or under-garment, which now gradually usurped the place of the cappa and became the distinctively academical dress of the masters of arts. but it was not at first the dull prosaic robe that we know. the mediæval master was clad in bright colours, red or green or blue, and rejoiced in them until the rising flood of prejudice in favour of all that is dull and sombre and austere washed away these together with almost all other touches of colour from the landscape of our grey island. the distinctive badge of mastership handed to the inceptor by the father of his faculty, was the biretta, a square cap with a tuft on the top, from which is descended our cap with its tassel. doctors of the superior faculties differentiated themselves by wearing a biretta (square cap) or pilea (round) as well as cappas, of bright hues, red, purple or violet. gascoigne, indeed, in his theological dictionary, declares that this head-dress was bestowed by god himself on the doctors of the mosaic law. whatever its origin, the round velvet cap with coloured silk ribbon, came to be, and still is, the peculiar property of the doctors of law and medicine. the oxford gowns of the present day have little resemblance to their mediæval prototypes. for the ordinary undergraduate or "commoner" to-day, academical dress, which must be worn at lectures, in chapel, in the streets at night, and on all official occasions, consists of his cap, a tattered "mortar-board," and a gown which seems a very poor relation of the original clerical garb. the sleeves have gone, and the length; only two bands survive, and a little gathering on the shoulders, and this apology for a gown is worn as often as not round the throat as a scarf, or carried under the arm. some years ago it was a point of honour with every undergraduate to wear a cap which was as battered and disreputable as possible. every freshman seized the first opportunity to break the corners of his "mortar-board" and to cut and unravel the tassel. yet once the tufted biretta, when it was the badge of mastership, was much coveted by undergraduates. first, they obtained the right of wearing a square cap without a tassel, like those still worn by the choristers of oxford colleges, and then they were granted the use of a tassel. the tuft in the case of the gentlemen commoners took the form of a golden tassel. snobs who cultivated the society of these gilded youths for the sake of their titles or their cash, or tutors, "rough to common men, but honeying at the whisper of a lord," gained from this fact the nick-name of tuft-hunters. the commoner, it should be explained, is one who pays for his commons, a student not on the foundation. the colleges were, in most cases, intended originally only for the fellows and scholars on the foundation. the admission of other students as commoners or boarders was a subsequent development, and various ranks of students came to be recognised--noblemen, gentlemen commoners, commoners, fellow-commoners, battelers, or servitors. these grades are now practically obsolete, the only distinction drawn among the undergraduates being between the scholars or students on the foundation and commoners, the ordinary undergraduates, who do not enjoy any scholarship or exhibition. the scholar, who must wear a larger gown with wide sleeves, is known by various names at various colleges. at merton he is a post-master, at magdalen a demy, so-called because he was entitled to half the commons of a fellow. the history of the commoner, the growth of an accretion that now forms the greater part of a college, may be illustrated by the records of the latter foundation. the statutes of new college had not made any provision for the admission of _commensales_, but william of waynflete, in drawing up the statutes of magdalen, was the first definitely to recognise the system that had grown up by which men who were not on the foundation lived as members of the college. waynflete limited the number of non-foundationers to twenty. they were to live at the charges of their own kindred; they were to be vouched for by "creancers"; and the privilege of admission was to be reserved for the sons of noble and powerful friends of the college. but within a hundred years the number of the commoners or battelers increased far beyond that allowed by the statutes. the position of these commoners was anomalous and led to "disorder and confusion," as certain fellows did most bitterly complain to the visitor. no provision, it appears, was made either for the instruction or the discipline of these supernumeraries. they were, in fact, regarded as the private pupils of the president or of one of the fellows. in attendance upon the wealthier of them or upon other members of the college came numerous "poore scholars," acting as their servants and profiting in their turn from such free teaching as the grammar school and the college lecturers might afford. the system, however, was already justified to some extent by the fact that among the pupils of the president were numbered bodley, camden, lyly and florio. the visitor, therefore, contented himself with enforcing the observation of the limits imposed by the statutes. the poor scholars were in future not to be more than thirteen in number, and were to be attached to the thirteen senior fellows. before long, however, the matriculations of non-foundationers began to increase very rapidly. a new block of buildings even was erected near the cherwell for their accommodation by . this is that picturesque group of gables which nestles under the great tower and forms so distinct a feature of the view from magdalen bridge. the number of "poore scholars" had also increased--servitors whose office forestalled that of the college "scout." they bridged the days when the junior members of a foundation "did" for themselves and the modern days of an [illustration: gables and tower magdalen college.] organised college service. it was decided, and this is where the scout has the advantage of his forerunners, that they should be required to attend the grammar school, and afterwards to perform all disputations and exercises required of members of the foundation. all commoners, also, "the sonnes of noblemen and such as are of great quality only excepted" were to be "tyed to the same rules." little more than a hundred years later edward gibbon matriculated at magdalen ( ) as a "gentleman commoner," and as a youth of fifteen commenced those fourteen months which he has told us were the most idle and unprofitable of his whole life. there are prigs of all ages. gibbon must have been intolerable in a common room. one can forgive the "monks of magdalen" for not discussing the early fathers with him after dinner, but one has no inclination on the other hand to revere the men who had already ( ), in their enthusiasm for the italian style, begun the "new buildings," and were still threatening to pull down the cloisters and to complete a large quadrangle in the same style, of which the new buildings were to form one end. the damage done by the succeeding generation was directed chiefly against the chapel and the hall, where under the guidance of the outrageous james wyatt, plaster ceilings were substituted for the old woodwork. the generosity of a late fellow has enabled mr bodley, with the aid of professor case, to repair this error by an extraordinarily interesting and successful restoration ( ). magdalen hall is now worthy of its pictures, its "linen-fold" panelling and splendid screen. bitter as is the account which gibbon has left us, it cannot be denied that there was much reason in his quarrel with the oxford of his day. i say oxford, for the state of magdalen was better rather than worse than that of the university at large. it should, however, in fairness be pointed out that as a gentleman commoner in those days he was one of a class which was very small and far from anxious to avail itself of the intellectual advantages of a university training. the commoners at magdalen were now very few in number. the founder's limitation was now so interpreted as to restrict them to the particular class of gentlemen commoners, sons of wealthy men, at liberty to study, but expected to prefer, and as a matter of fact usually preferring, to enjoy themselves. but the efforts of the more liberal-minded fellows were at length crowned with success. by the first university commission the college was allowed to admit as many non-foundationers as it could provide with rooms. the last gentleman commoner had ceased to figure in the _calendar_ by . the system of licensed lodgings introduced by the university soon caused the numbers of the ordinary commoners to increase, so that in one-third of the resident undergraduates were living in lodgings outside the college. it was clearly time for the college to provide accommodation for as many of these as possible within its own walls. the change which took place in magdalen during the last century, a change "from a small society, made up almost wholly of foundation-members and to a great extent of graduates, to a society of considerable numbers, made up of the same elements, in about the same proportion as most of the other colleges," is recorded therefore in the architecture of oxford. for it was to lodge the commoners that the buildings which are known as s. swithun's (so-called from the statue in a niche on the west side of the tower which is placed at the entrance of these buildings, and which reminds one that s. swithun was buried in winchester cathedral close to the beautiful shrine of william of waynflete) were designed by messrs bodley & garner and completed in . they face the high street, and you will pass them on your left as you come down to the new entrance gateway, which is in the line of the outer wall, parallel to the high. the old gateway, which was designed by inigo jones, stood almost at right angles to the site of the present gateway and lodge, looking west. it was removed in , and a new one designed by a. w. pugin erected in its stead. the present gateway ( ) follows the lines of the old design of pugin, and the niches are filled with statues of s. john the baptist, s. mary magdalen and of the founder, william of waynflete. s. john the baptist was the patron saint of the old hospital, and after s. john the quadrangle into which you now enter is called. opposite to you are the president's lodgings, built by messrs bodley & garner in on the site of the old president's lodgings. with the exquisite architecture of the chapel and cloisters on the right to guide them, these famous architects have not failed to build here something that harmonises in style and treatment with the rest. one might wish that s. swithun's were a little quieter. there is a slight yielding to the clamorous desire for fussy ornamentation which is so typical of this noisy age. but the president's lodgings are perfect in their kind. as you stand, then, in s. john's quadrangle you have, in the chapel and founder's tower, and the cloisters on your right, and in the picturesque old fragment of the grammar school, known as the grammar hall, facing you on your left, an epitome, as it were, of the old college foundations of oxford; and in those buildings of s. swithun and the gateway, which faces in a new direction, an epitome of the new oxford that has been grafted on the old. on the extreme right you see a curious open-air pulpit of stone, from which the university sermon used to be preached on s. john the baptist's day. on that occasion the pulpit, as well as the surrounding buildings, was strewn with rushes and boughs in token of s. john's preaching in the wilderness. [illustration: open air pulpit magdalen] in the middle ages the chief executive officers of the university were the proctors, who are first mentioned in . the origin of their office is obscure. they were responsible for the collection and expenditure of the common funds of the university, and as a record of this function they still retain in their robes a purse, a rudimentary organ, as it were, atrophied by disuse, but traceable in a triangular bunch of stuff at the back of the shoulder. apart from this duty and that of regulating the system of lectures and disputations, their chief business was to keep order. one can imagine that a proctor's life was not a happy one. he had to endeavour not only to keep the peace between the students and the townsmen, but also between the numerous factions among the scholars themselves. the friars and the secular clergy, the artists and the jurists, the nominalists and the realists, and, above all, the northerners and southerners were always ready to quarrel, and quarrels quickly led to blows, and blows to a general riot. for the rivalry of the nations was a peculiar feature of mediæval universities. at bologna and paris the masters of arts divided themselves into "four nations," with elective officers at their head. at oxford the main division was between northerners and southerners, between students, that is, who came from the north or the south of the trent. welshmen and irishmen were included among the southerners. and over the northern and southern masters of arts presided northern and southern proctors respectively, chosen by a process of indirect election, like the rectors of bologna and paris. contests and continual riots arising out of the rivalry of these factions took the place of modern football matches or struggles on the river. in , for instance, we read of an encounter between the northerners and the irish, which resulted in the death of several irishmen. so alarming, apparently, was this outbreak that many of the leading members of the university departed in fear, and only returned at the stern command of the king. the bishops, too, issued a notice, in which they earnestly exhorted the clerks in their dioceses to "repair to the schools, not armed for the fight, but rather prepared for study." but the episcopal exhortation had about as much effect as a meeting of the peace league in exeter hall would have now. quarrel after quarrel broke out between the rival nations. they plundered each others' goods and broke each others' heads with a zest worthy of an irish wake. in spite of their reputation for riotousness, however, the irish students were specially exempted by royal writ from the operation of the statute passed by parliament in , which ordered that all irishmen and irish clerks, beggars called chamberdekens, should quit the realm. graduates in the schools had been exempted in the statute. this exemption does not appear to have conduced to the state of law and order painfully toiled after by the mere saxon. for a few years later, in the first parliament of henry vi., the commons sent up a petition complaining of the numerous outrages committed near oxford by "wylde irishmen." these turbulent persons, it was alleged, living under the jurisdiction of the chancellor, set the king's officers at defiance, and used such threatening language, that the bailiffs of the town did not dare to stir out of their houses for fear of death. the commons therefore prayed that all irishmen, except graduates in the schools, beneficed clergy, professed monks, landowners, merchants and members of civic corporations, should be compelled to quit the realm. it was also demanded that graduates of irish extraction should be required to find security for their good behaviour, and that they should not be allowed to act as principals of halls. this petition received the royal assent. but it was stipulated that irish clerks might freely resort to oxford and cambridge, if they could show that they were subjects of the english king. it was in vain that students were compelled to swear that they would not carry arms; in vain were seditious gatherings and leagues for the espousal of private quarrels forbidden. in vain, after one great outbreak in , were formal articles of peace drawn up; in vain were the combatants bound over to keep the peace, and to give secret information to the chancellor if they heard of others who were preparing to break it. in vain was the celebration of the national festivals forbidden, and the masters and scholars prohibited, under pain of the greater excommunication, from "going about dancing in the churches or open places, wearing masks or wreathed and garlanded with flowers" ( ). in vain was it decreed that the two nations should become one and cease, officially, to have a separate existence ( ). though the faculty of arts might vote from this time forward as a single body, yet one proctor was always a borealis and the other an australis; and when, in , it was decreed that one of the three guardians of the rothbury chest should always be a southerner and another a northerner, the university admitted the existence of the two rival nations within its borders once more. only a few years after this, in fact ( ), its very existence was threatened by the violence of the factions. the northerners gave battle to the southerners, and so many rioters were arrested that the castle was filled to overflowing. many of the more studious clerks resolved to quit this riotous university for ever, and betook themselves to stamford, where there were already some flourishing schools. they were compelled at last to disperse or to return by the king, who refused to listen to their plea, that their right to study in peace at stamford was as good as that of any other person whatever who chose to live there. so serious was this secession, and so much was the rivalry of stamford feared, that all candidates for a degree were henceforth (till ) required to swear that they would not give or attend lectures there "as in a university." it was on the occasion of this migration that the members of brasenose hall, which adjoined s. mary's entry, salesbury hall, little university hall and jussel's tenement, carried with them, as a symbol of their continuity, the famous brazen nose knocker to stamford. there the little society settled; an archway of the hall they occupied there still exists, and now belongs to brasenose college. the knocker itself was brought back in to a place [illustration: quadrangle brasenose] of honour in the college hall. for in the meantime the old hall, after a career of over two hundred years, had been converted into a college, founded by william smyth, bishop of lincoln, and master sotton, very much as a protest against the new learning which was then being encouraged at corpus christi. the continuity of the society is indicated by the fact that the first principal of the college was the last principal of the old "aula regia de brasinnose." the foundation stone was laid in , as the inscription in the old quadrangle, to which a story was added in the time of james i., records. they were a turbulent crew, these oxonian forbears of ours. dearly they loved a fight, and they rose in rebellion against the masters when they were bringing in new statutes for the preservation of the peace. several were slain on both sides. nor was it easy to punish the unruly students. sometimes, after a brawl in which they were clearly in the wrong, the delinquents would flee to shotover, and there maintain themselves in the forest. at other times, when they had gone too far, and the thunder of the chancellor's sentence of excommunication had fallen on their heads as a punishment for attempting to sack the abbey of abingdon, or defiling the church of s. mary with bloodshed, for sleeping in a tavern, or fighting with the king's foresters, they would simply leave the university altogether and get away scathless. for the chancellor's jurisdiction did not extend beyond oxford. a joust or tourney was a certain cause of riot. the passions are easily roused after any athletic contest, whether it be a football match or a bull-fight. remembering this, we shall best be able to understand why the king found it necessary to forbid any joust or tournament to be held in the vicinity of oxford or cambridge ( ). "yea, such was the clashing of swords," says fuller, "the rattling of arms, the sounding of trumpets, the neighing of horses, the shouting of men all day time with the roaring of riotous revellers all the night, that the scholars' studies were disturbed, safety endangered, lodging straitened, charges enlarged. in a word, so many war-horses were brought thither that pegasus was himself likely to be shut out; for where mars keeps his terms, there the muses may even make their vacation." any excuse, indeed, was good enough to set the whole town in an uproar. a bailiff would hustle a student; a tradesman would "forestall" and retail provisions at a higher price than the regulations allowed; a rowdy student would compel a common bedesman to pray for the souls of certain unpopular living townsmen on the score that they would soon be dead. the bailiffs would arrest a clerk and refuse to give him up at the request of the chancellor; the chancellor, when appealed to by the townsmen to punish some offending students, would unsoothingly retort: "chastise your laymen and we will chastise our clerks." the records of town and university are full of the riots which arose from such ebullitions of the ever-present ill-feeling; of the appeals made by either party; and of the awards given by the king, who might be some english justinian, like edward i., or might not. the answer of the townsmen ( ) to the chancellor's retort quoted above was distinctly vigorous. they seized and imprisoned all scholars on whom they could lay hands, invaded their inns, made havoc of their goods and trampled their books under foot. in the face of such provocation the proctors sent their bedels about the town, forbidding the students to leave their inns. but all commands and exhortations were in vain. by nine o'clock next morning, bands of scholars were parading the streets in martial array. if the proctors failed to restrain them, the mayor was equally powerless to restrain his townsmen. the great bell of s. martin's rang out an alarm; ox-horns were sounded in the streets; messengers were sent into the country to collect rustic allies. the clerks, who numbered three thousand in all, began their attack simultaneously in various quarters. they broke open warehouses in the spicery, the cutlery and elsewhere. armed with bows and arrows, swords and bucklers, slings and stones, they fell upon their opponents. three they slew, and wounded fifty or more. one band, led by fulk de neyrmit, rector of piglesthorne, and his brother, took up a position in high street between the churches of s. mary and all saints, and attacked the house of a certain edward hales. this hales was a long-standing enemy of the clerks. there were no half measures with him. he seized his crossbow, and from an upper chamber sent an unerring shaft into the eye of the pugnacious rector. the death of their valiant leader caused the clerks to lose heart. they fled, closely pursued by the townsmen and country-folk. some were struck down in the streets, and others who had taken refuge in the churches were dragged out and driven mercilessly to prison, lashed with thongs and goaded with iron spikes. complaints of murder, violence and robbery were lodged straightway with the king by both parties. the townsmen claimed three thousand pounds' damage. the commissioners, however, appointed to decide the matter, condemned them to pay two hundred marks, removed the bailiffs, and banished twelve of the most turbulent citizens from oxford. then the terms of peace were formally ratified. following the example of their chancellor, who was gradually asserting his authority more and more in secular matters, and thought little of excommunicating a mayor for removing a pillory without his leave ( ), the clerks became continually more aggressive. quarrels with the townsmen were succeeded by quarrels with the bishop of lincoln, when the latter, in his turn, tried to encroach upon the jurisdiction of the chancellor. peace, perfect peace, it will be seen, had not yet descended upon the university. the triumph of dulness had not arrived, when the enraptured monarch should behold: "isis' elders reel, their pupils sport, and alma mater lie dissolved in port." certainly the elders gave their pupils sport enough after their kind, but the intellectual quarrels of the schoolmen, the furious controversies of the dominicans and the franciscans, the scotists and the thomists, the nominalists and the realists, were a part of it. when the excitement of local riots, theological disputes and political dissension failed, there were the exactions of a papal representative to be resisted. and when such resistance led to the citation of the chancellor and proctors and certain masters to appear within sixty days before the cardinal appointed by the pope to hear the case at avignon, there was the whole principle that no englishman should be dragged across the seas to judgment to be fought for (_circa_ ). for every man was a politician in those days, and the scholars of oxford not least. their quarrels and riotings were therefore not without political significance. thus when the mad parliament met in the "new house of the black friars at oxford," the behaviour of the barons was reflected by that of students. the "nations" pitched their field in "beaumont," and after a fierce fight in battle array, divers on both sides were slain and pitifully wounded. the northerners and welshmen were at last acknowledged to be conquerors. the position of the students with regard to the country, is indicated by the old rhyme: "mark the chronicles aright when oxford scholars fall to fight before many months expired england will with war be fired." it was oxford, the centre of english ecclesiasticism, which, by the riot that hounded the papal legate out of the city, gave the signal for a widespread outbreak of resistance to the wholesale pillage of excessive papal taxation. regardless of the gathering storm, the legate cardinal otho had arrived at oxford with his retinue of italians, and taken up his abode at osney. some members of the university, having sent him some delicacies for his table, went to pay their respects in person, and to ask of him a favour in return. the doorkeeper, however, a suspicious italian, absolutely refused to admit them to the guests' hall. irritated by this unexpected rebuff, they collected a great number of their comrades, and made a determined attack on the foreigners, who defended themselves with sticks, swords and flaming brands plucked from the fire. the fury of the clerks reached its height when the legate's chief cook took up a cauldron full of boiling broth, and threw its contents in the face of a poor irish chaplain, who had been begging for food at the kitchen door. a student thereupon drew his bow, and shot the cook dead on the spot, whilst others tried to set fire to the massive gates which had been closed against them. the terrified legate, hastily putting on a canonical cope, fled for refuge to the belfry of the abbey, and there lay hid for several hours, while the clerks assailed the building with bows and catapults. news of the fray soon reached henry iii., who happened to be staying at abingdon, and he lost no time in despatching some soldiers to the rescue. under their powerful escort the legate managed to ford the river by night, accompanied by the members of his suite. still as he galloped away, he seemed to hear the shouts of his adversaries ringing in his ears, "where is that usurer, that simoniac, that spoiler of revenues, and thirster after money, who perverts the king, overthrows the realm, and enriches strangers with plunder taken from us?" it was not long before the papal legate was forbidden the english shores, and his bulls of excommunication were flung into the sea. simon de montfort was the friend of adam marsh, and the confidant of grossetete, and it was appropriately enough at oxford that the great champion of english freedom secured the appointment of a council of twenty-four to draw up terms for the reform of the state. parliament met at oxford; the barons presented a long petition of grievances, the council was elected, and a body of preliminary articles known as the provisions of oxford was agreed upon. in the following year henry repudiated the provisions; civil war ensued, and ended by placing the country in the hands of simon de montfort. the struggle between henry and the barons then did not leave oxford unaffected. for any disturbance without was sure to be reflected in a conflict between clerks and laymen, in a town and gown row, of some magnitude. in the present case the appearance of prince edward with an armed force--he took up his quarters at the king's hall--in the northern suburb gave occasion for an outbreak. the municipal authorities closed the gates against him, and he resumed his march towards wales. the scholars now thought it was time that they should be allowed to go out of the city, and finding themselves prevented by the closed wooden doors of smith gate, they hewed these down and carried them away, like samson, into the fields, chanting over them the office of the dead: "a subvenite sancti fast began to sing as man doth when a dead man men will to pit bring." the mayor retorted by throwing some of them into prison, in spite of the chancellor's protest. further arrests were about to be made by the irate townsmen, but a clerk saw them advancing in a body down the high street, and gave the alarm by ringing the bell of s. mary's. the clerks were at dinner, but hearing the well-known summons they sprang to arms and rushed out into the street to give battle. many of the foe were wounded; the rest were put to flight. their banners were torn to pieces, and several shops were sacked by the victorious students, who, flushed with victory, marched to the houses of the bailiffs and set them on fire. "in the south half of the town, and afterwards the spicery they brake from end to other, and did all to robberie." the mayor, they then remembered, was a vintner. accordingly a rush was made for the vintnery; all the taps were drawn, and the wine flowed out like water into the streets. their success for a moment was complete, but retribution awaited them. the king was appealed to, and refused to countenance so uproarious a vindication of their rights. when they saw how the wind blew, they determined to leave oxford. it was a question whither they should go and where pitch their scholastic tents. now it happened that at cambridge, a town which had ceased to be famous only for eels and could boast a flourishing university of its own, similar disturbances had recently occurred with similar results. many masters and scholars had removed to northampton, and to northampton accordingly, to aid them in their avowed intention of founding a third university, the disconsolate oxford scholars departed. the situation was evidently serious. but the king induced the oxonians to return by promising that they should not be molested if they would only keep the peace. they returned, but almost immediately all scholars were commanded by a writ from the king to quit the town and stay at home until he should recall them after the session of parliament then about to be held at oxford. the king, it was officially explained, could not be responsible for the conduct of the fierce and untamed lords who would be assembled together there and would be sure to come into conflict with the students. perhaps the more urgent motive was fear lest the students should openly and actively side with the barons, with whom, it was known, the majority of them were in sympathy. the fact was that in the great struggle against the crown in which england was now involved, the clergy and the universities ranged themselves with the towns on the side of simon de montfort. ejected from oxford, many of the students openly joined his cause and repaired at once to northampton. for a time all went well with the king. as if to demonstrate his faith in the justice of his cause, he braved popular superstition and passing within the walls of oxford paid his devotions at the shrine of s. frideswide. the meeting of parliament failed to bring about any reconciliation. reinforced by a detachment of scottish allies--"untamed and fierce" enough, no doubt--henry left oxford and marched on northampton. foremost in its defence was a band of oxford students, who so enraged the king by the effective use they made of their bows and slings and catapults, that he swore to hang them all when he had taken the town. take the town he did, and he would have kept his oath had he not been deterred by the reminder that he would by such an act lose the support of all those nobles and followers whose sons and kinsmen were students. but the victorious career of the king was almost at an end. the vengeance of s. frideswide was wrought at the battle of lewes. simon de montfort found himself head of the state, and one of his first acts was to order the scholars to return to their university. such keen, occasionally violent, interest in politics seems, in these days, characteristic of the german or russian rather than the english university student. nowadays the political enthusiasm of the undergraduate is mild, and his discussion of politics is academic. in the debating hall of the union, or in the more retired meeting-places of the smaller political clubs, like the canning, the chatham, the palmerston or the russell, he discusses the questions of the day. but his discussions lack as a rule the sense of reality, and they suffer accordingly. occasionally, when a cabinet minister has been persuaded to dine and talk with one or other of these clubs, or when the speaker is one who is deliberately practising for the part he means to take in after-life, the debates are neither uninteresting nor entirely valueless. and at the worst they give those who take part in them a facility of speech and some knowledge of political questions. but it is not so that the university exercises any influence on current events. nor, except in so far as they warn practical men to vote the other way, are those [illustration: magdalen college.] occasional manifestoes, which a few professors sign and publish, of any great importance. but it is through the press and through parliament that the voice of young oxford is heard. it is through the minds and the examples of those statesmen and administrators, who have imbibed their principles of life and action within her precincts, and have been trained in her schools and on her river or playing-fields, that the influence of the university is reflected on the outer world. nor is it only the men like lord salisbury, lord rosebery and mr gladstone, who guide the country at home, or like lord milner and lord curzon, who give their best work to greater britain, that are the true sons of the university; it is the plain, hard-working clergymen and civilians, also, who, by their lives of honest and unselfish toil, hand on the torch of good conduct and high ideals which has been entrusted to them. oxford had some share in the events which led to the deposition of edward ii. the king wrote to the chancellor, masters and scholars calling upon them to resist his enemies. on the approach of roger de mortimer, a supporter of the queen, he wrote again enjoining them not to allow him to enter the city, but to keep smith gate shut, lest he should enter by that way. but when the king was a refugee in wales, the queen came to islip. she would not come to oxford till "she saw it secure." but when the burghers came to her with presents she was satisfied. she took up her residence at the white friars, and the mortimers theirs at osney. and a sermon was preached by the bishop of hereford, who demonstrated from his text, "my head grieveth me," that an evil head, meaning the king, not otherwise to be cured, must be taken away. the majority of scholars apparently agreed with him. the terrible scourge of the black death, which carried off half the population of england, fell hardly on oxford. those who had places in the country fled to them; those who remained behind were almost totally swept away. the schools were shut, the colleges and halls closed, and there were scarcely men enough to bury the dead. the effect upon learning was disastrous. there were not enough students forthcoming to fill the benefices, and the scarcity of students affected the citizens severely. the disorder of the time, which was to issue in wat tyler's rebellion, was shadowed forth at oxford by the extraordinary riot of s. scholastica's day ( ). the story of this riot, which was to bear fruit in further privileges being vouchsafed to the university at the expense of the town, has been recorded with infinite spirit by wood. "on tuesday, february , being the feast of s. scholastica the virgin, came walter de springheuse, roger de chesterfield, and other clerks to the tavern called swyndlestock (the mermaid tavern at quatervoix), and there calling for wine, john de croydon, the vintner, brought them some, but they disliking it, as it should seem, and he avouching it to be good, several snappish words passed between them. at length the vintner giving them stubborn and saucy language, they threw the wine and vessel at his head. the vintner therefore receding with great passion, and aggravating the abuse to those of his family and neighbourhood, several came in, who out of propensed malice seeking all occasions of conflict with the scholars, and taking this abuse for a ground to proceed upon, caused the town bell at s. martin's to be rung, that the commonalty might be summoned together in a body. which being begun, they in an instant were in arms, some with bows and arrows, others with divers sorts of weapons. and then they, without any more ado, did in a furious and hostile manner suddenly set upon divers scholars, who at that time had not any offensive arms, no, not so much as anything to defend themselves. they shot also at the chancellor of the university, and would have killed him, though he endeavoured to pacify them and appease the tumult. further, also, though the scholars at the command of the chancellor did presently withdraw themselves from the fray, yet the townsmen thereupon did more fiercely pursue him and the scholars, and would by no means desist from the conflict. the chancellor, perceiving what great danger they were in, caused the university bell at s. mary's to be rung out, whereupon the scholars got bows and arrows, and maintained the fight with the townsmen till dark night, at which time the fray ceased, no one scholar or townsman being killed, or mortally wounded, or maimed. "on the next day albeit the chancellor of the university caused public proclamation to be made in the morning both at s. mary's church in the presence of the scholars there assembled in a great multitude, and also at quatervois among the townsmen, that no scholar or townsman should wear or bear any offensive weapons, or assault any man, or otherwise disturb the peace (upon which the scholars, in humble obedience to that proclamation, repaired to the schools, and demeaned themselves peaceably till after dinner) yet the very same morning the townsmen came with their bows and arrows, and drove away a certain master in divinity and his auditors, who were then determining in the augustine schools. the baillives of the town also had given particular warning to every townsman, at his respective house, in the morning, that they should make themselves ready to fight with the scholars against the time when the town bell should ring out, and also given notice before to the country round about, and had hired people to come in and assist the townsmen in their intended conflict with the scholars. in dinner time the townsmen subtily and secretly sent about fourscore men armed with bows and arrows, and other manner of weapons into the parish of s. giles in the north suburb; who, after a little expectation, having discovered certain scholars walking after dinner in beaumont, issued out of s. giles's church, shooting at the same scholars for the space of three furlongs: some of them they drove into the augustine priory, and others into the town. one scholar they killed without the walls, some they wounded mortally, others grievously, and used the rest basely. all which being done without any mercy, caused an horrible outcry in the town: whereupon the town bell being rung out first, and after that the university bell, divers scholars issued out armed with bows and arrows in their own defence and of their companions, and having first shut and blocked up some of the gates of the town (lest the country people, who were then gathered in innumerable multitudes, might suddenly break in upon their rear in an hostile manner and assist the townsmen who were now ready prepared in battle array, and armed with their targets also) they fought with them and defended themselves till after vesper tide; a little after which time, entered into the town by the west gate about two thousand countrymen, with a black dismal flag, erect and displayed. of which the scholars having notice, and being unable to resist so great and fierce a company, they withdrew themselves to their lodgings: but the townsmen finding no scholars in the streets to make any opposition, pursued them, and that day they broke open five inns or hostels of scholars with fire and sword. such scholars as they found in the said halls or inns they killed or maimed, or grievously wounded. their books and all their goods which they could find, they spoiled, plundered and carried away. all their victuals, wine and other drink they poured out; their bread, fish, &c. they trod under foot. after this the night came on and the conflict ceased for that day, and the same even public proclamation was made in oxen, in the king's name, 'that no man should injure the scholars or their goods under pain of forfeiture.' "the next day being thursday (after the chancellor and some principal persons of the university were set out towards woodstock to the king, who had sent for them thither) no one scholar or scholar's servant so much as appearing out of their houses with any intention to harm the townsmen, or offer any injury to them (as they themselves confessed) yet the said townsmen about sun rising, having rung out their bell, assembled themselves together in a numberless multitude, desiring to heap mischief upon mischief, and to perfect by a more terrible conclusion that wicked enterprize which they had begun. this being done, they with hideous noises and clamours came and invaded the scholars' houses in a wretchless sort, which they forced open with iron bars and other engines; and entering into them, those that resisted and stood upon their defence (particularly some chaplains) they killed or else in a grievous sort maimed. some innocent wretches, after they had killed, they scornfully cast into houses of easement, others they buried in dunghills, and some they let lie above ground. the crowns of some chaplains, viz. all the skin so far as the tonsure went, these diabolical imps flayed off in scorn of their clergy. divers others whom they had mortally wounded, they haled to prison, carrying their entrails in their hands in a most lamentable manner. they plundered and carried away all the goods out of fourteen inns or halls, which they spoiled that thursday. they broke open and dashed to pieces the scholars' chests and left not any moveable thing which might stand them in any stead; and which was yet more horrid, some poor innocents that were flying with all speed to the body of christ for succour (then honourably carried in procession by the brethren through the town for the appeasing of this slaughter) and striving to embrace and come as near as they could to the repository wherein the glorious body was with great devotion put, these confounded sons of satan knocked them down, beat and most cruelly wounded. the crosses also of certain brethren (the friers) which were erected on the ground for the present time with a 'procul hinc ite profani,' they overthrew and laid flat with the cheynell. this wickedness and outrage continuing the said day from the rising of the sun till noon tide and a little after without any ceasing, and thereupon all the scholars (besides those of the colleges) being fled divers ways, our mother the university of oxon, which had but two days before many sons, is now almost forsaken and left forlorn." the casualty list was heavy. six members of the university were killed outright in the fray; twenty-one others, chiefly irishmen, were dangerously wounded, and a large number was missing. the bishop of lincoln immediately placed the town under an interdict. the king sent a commission to inquire into the cause of the riot. the sheriff was summarily dismissed from his office, two hundred of the townsmen were arrested, and the mayor and bailiffs committed to the tower. with a view to settling the deep-rooted differences, which, it was perceived, were the origin of this bloody combat, the university and the city were advised to surrender their privileges into the king's hands. edward iii. restored those of the university in a few days. the town was kept some time in suspense, whilst the king and the archbishop were striving to induce the scholars to return to oxford. in the end all their ancient rights were restored to the citizens, with the exception of those which had been transferred to the university. for by the new charter the king granted to the latter some of the old liberties of the town. this charter ( th june ) granted a free pardon to all masters and scholars and their servants who had taken part in the great riot. the university, the king declared, was the main source and channel of learning in all england, more precious to him than gold or topaz. to the chancellor, then, or his deputy, was granted the assay of bread and ale, the supervision of weights and measures, the sole cognisance of forestallers, retailers and sellers of putrid meat and fish; the power of excommunicating any person who polluted or obstructed the streets, and of assessing the tax to be paid by scholars' servants. it was also decreed that the sheriff and under-sheriff of the county should henceforth swear, on taking office, to uphold the privileges of the university. in compensation for the damage done in the recent riot, the city had to restore the goods and books of all scholars wherever found, and to pay down £ in cash. such was the price, in money and rights, that the commonalty had to pay before they could satisfy the civil authorities. from that time forth the university practically governed the town. the wrath of the church was not so soon appeased. it was not till that the interdict was removed, nor were the offences of the citizens against the holy church forgiven even then, except at the price of further humiliation. the mayor and bailiffs, and sixty of the chiefest burghers, such were the conditions, were to appear personally, and defray the expenses of a mass to be celebrated every year in s. mary's on s. scholastica's day, when prayers should be said for the souls of the clerks and others slain in that conflict. the mayor and these sixty substantial burghers were also to offer on that occasion one penny each at the great altar. forty pence out of this offering were to be given by the proctors to forty poor scholars, and the remainder to the curate. so humiliating did this condition appear, that it gave rise to the popular saying and, perhaps, belief that the mayor was obliged, on the anniversary of the riot, to wear round his neck a halter or, at best, a silken cord. it may well be imagined that the procession, as it took its way to s. mary's, did not escape the taunts and jeers of the jubilant clerks. under elizabeth, when prayer for the dead had been forbidden, this function was changed for a sermon, with the old offering of a penny. the service was retained in a modified form down to the time of charles ii. the political and religious divisions introduced by the lollard doctrines found their expression, of course, in students' riots. for the northerners sided with wycliffe, himself a yorkshireman, and the southerners, supported by the welsh, professed themselves loyal children of the church. a general encounter took place in ; several persons were killed, and many northerners left oxford. the chancellor was deposed by parliament for failing to do his duty in the matter. the strife was renewed at the beginning of lent next year. a pitched battle was arranged to be fought between the contending parties in the open country. this was only prevented by the active interference of the duke of gloucester. some turbulent welshmen were expelled. but this banishment only gave rise to a fresh outbreak. for as the welshmen knelt down to kiss the gates of the town, they were subjected to gross indignities by their exultant adversaries. and a party of northerners, headed by a chaplain named speeke, paraded the streets in military array, threatening to kill anyone who looked out of the window, and shouting, "war, war. slay the welsh dogs and their whelps." halls were broken open, and the goods of welsh scholars who lodged there were plundered. the welshmen retaliated, and the university only obtained peace, when, on the outbreak of owen glendower's rebellion, the welsh scholars returned to wales. the effect of the lawlessness of these mediæval students upon the history of the university was considerable. it is reflected in the statute book. it came to be recognised that their riotous behaviour was not only scandalous but also a veritable danger, which threatened the very existence of oxford as a seat of learning. politically, too, their behaviour was intolerable. each outbreak, therefore, and each revelation of the licence of unattached students, who were credited with the chief share in these brawls, were arguments in favour of the college system inaugurated by the founder of merton college. as early as it had been found necessary to provide that every scholar should have his own master, on whose roll his name should be entered, and from whom he should hear at least one lecture daily. and in henry v. issued some ordinances for academical reform, with the object of tightening the bonds of discipline. they were reduced to a statute of the university immediately. fines were imposed for threats of personal violence, carrying weapons, pushing with the shoulder or striking with the fist, striking with a stone or club, striking with a knife, dagger, sword-axe or other warlike weapon, carrying bows and arrows, gathering armed men, and resisting the execution of justice, especially by night. all scholars and scholars' servants, it was enacted, were, on first coming to oxford, to take the oath for keeping the peace, which had hitherto been taken by graduates only; they were no longer to lodge in the houses of laymen, but must place themselves under the government of some discreet principal, approved by the chancellor and regents. chamberdekens were to lodge at a hall where some common table was kept. thus the "unattached student," who has been recently revived, was legislated out of existence. it is not, then, surprising to find that, whilst the thirteenth century saw the beginning of the college system, the fourteenth was the era which saw its great development. already, sixteen years after the foundation of oriel, a north country priest, robert eglesfield, chaplain of queen philippa, had anticipated in conception the achievement of william of wykeham by proposing to establish a college which should be a merton on a larger scale. but the ideas of the founder of queen's were greater than his resources. in the hope of assistance, therefore, and not in vain, he commended his foundation to the queen and all future queens-consort of england. he himself devoted his closing years and all his fortune to the infant society, for whose guidance he drew up statutes of an original character. his aim seems to have been to endow a number of students of theology or canon law; to provide for the elementary education of many poor boys, and for the distribution of alms to the poor of the city. the ecclesiastical character of the college was marked by the endowment of several chaplains, and by precise directions for the celebration of masses, at which the "poor boys" were to assist as choristers, besides being trained in grammar and afterwards in logic or philosophy. the bent of eglesfield's mind is further indicated by the symbolism which pervades his ordinances. the fellowships, which were tenable for life and intended to be well endowed, were practically restricted to natives of the north country. and as there had been twelve apostles, so it was ordained that there should be twelve fellows, who should sit in hall on one side of the high table, with the provost in their centre, even as christ and his apostles, according to tradition, sat at the last supper. and, as a symbol of the saviour's blood, they were required to wear mantles of crimson cloth. the "poor boys," who were to sit at a side-table clad in a distinctive dress, from which they derived their name of tabarders, and who were to be "opposed" or examined by one of the fellows at the beginning of every meal, symbolised the seventy disciples. some traces of the symbolism which pleased the founder still survive at queen's. the students are still summoned to hall, as the founder directs, by the blasts of a trumpet; still on christmas day the college celebrates the "boar's head" dinner (see p. ); still on st january the bursar presents to each guest at the gaudy a needle and thread (aiguille et fil = eglesfield), saying, "take this and be thrifty." and the magnificent wassail cup given to the college by the founder is still in use. but of the original buildings scarcely anything remains. the old entrance in queen's lane has been supplanted by the front quadrangle opening on the high ( - ), in which hawksmoor, wren's pupil, achieved a fine example of the italian style. wren himself designed the chapel. the magnificent library in the back quadrangle (late seventeenth century) is housed in a room, which, with its rich plaster ceiling and carving by grinling gibbons, is a remarkable specimen of the ornate classical style. eglesfield had attempted a task beyond his means. forty years later william of wykeham adopted his ideas, developed them and carried them out. it is the scale on which he founded s. mary college, or new college, as it has been called for five hundred years to distinguish it from oriel, the other s. mary college, and the completeness of its arrangements that mark an era in the history of college foundations. son of a carpenter at wickham, william had picked up the rudiments of education at a grammar school and in a notary's office. presently he entered the king's service. he was promoted to be supervisor of the works at windsor; and made the most of his opportunity. _hoc fecit wykeham_ were the words he inscribed, according to the legend, on the walls of the castle at windsor; and it is equally true that he made it and that it made him, for so, to stop the mouths of his calumniators, he chose to translate the phrase. the king marked the admirable man of affairs; and rewarded him, according to custom, with innumerable benefices. wykeham became the greatest pluralist of his age. he grew in favour at court, until soon "everything was done by him and nothing was done without him." he was "so wise of building castles," as wycliffe sarcastically hinted, that he was appointed bishop of winchester and chancellor of england. yet in the midst of the cares of these offices he found time ( ) to set about establishing his college. his great genius as an architect, and his astonishing powers of administration under two kings, point him out as one of the greatest englishmen of the middle ages. he has left his mark on his country, not only in such architectural achievements as windsor and queenborough castles, the reconstruction of the nave of winchester cathedral (where is his altar tomb) or the [illustration: the bell tower & cloisters new college.] original plan of his collegiate buildings, but also as the founder of the public school system and the new type of college. it was as a lawyer-ecclesiastic that he had succeeded. but it was against the administration of ecclesiastical statesmen that the discontent of the time was being directed by the wycliffites and john of gaunt. himself a staunch supporter of the old régime in church and state, wykeham set himself to remedy its defects and to provide for its maintenance as well as for his own soul's health after death. oxford had reached the height of its prosperity in the fourteenth century. then the black death, the decadence of the friars, the french wars, the withdrawal of foreign students and the severance of the ties between english and foreign universities, commenced a decay which was accelerated by the decline of the ecclesiastical monopoly of learning, by the wycliffite movement and, later, by the wars of the roses. wykeham marked some of these causes and their effect. he believed in himself, and therefore in the canon law and lawyer-ecclesiastics; he noted the falling off in the number of the students, and therefore of the clergy, caused by the black death; he knew the poverty of those who wished to study, and the weak points in the system of elementary education. he wished to encourage a secular clergy who should fight the wycliffites and reform the church. therefore he determined to found a system by which they might be trained, and by which the road to success might be opened to the humblest youths--a system which should pay him in return the duty of perpetual prayers for his soul.[ ] as early as , then, he began to buy land about the north-eastern corner of the city wall; and ten years later, having obtained licence from richard ii., he enclosed a filthy lane that ran alongside the north wall and began to build a home for the warden, seventy scholars, ten stipendiary priests or chaplains, three stipendiary clerks and sixteen chorister boys of whom his college was to be composed. eglesfield had proposed to establish seventy-two young scholars on his foundation. wykeham borrowed and improved upon the idea. he provided a separate college for them at winchester, and in so doing he took a step which has proved to be of quite incalculable consequence in the history of the moral and intellectual development of this country. for he founded the first english public school. from the scholars of winchester, when they had reached at least the age of fifteen years, and from them only the seventy scholars of "s. marie college" were to be chosen by examination. a preference was given to the founder's kin and the natives of certain dioceses. these young scholars, if they were not disqualified by an income of over five marks or by bodily deformity, entered at once upon the course in arts, and, after two years of probation and if approved by examination, might be admitted true and perpetual fellows. small wonder if golden scholars became sometimes silver bachelors and leaden masters! a fellow's allowance was a shilling a week for commons and an annual "livery." but it was provided that each young scholar should study for his first three years under the supervision of one of the fellows, who was to receive for each pupil five shillings. this was a new step in the development of the college system. though designed merely to supplement the lectures of the regents in the schools, the new provision of tutors was destined to supplant them. another step of far-reaching consequence taken by wykeham was the acquisition of benefices in the country, college livings to which a fellow could retire when he had resided long enough or failed to obtain other preferment. the government of the college was not entrusted to the young fellows, but to the warden, sub-warden, five deans, three bursars and a few senior fellows. but even the youngest of the fellows was entitled to vote on the election of a warden. [illustration: in new college] the warden of this new foundation was to be a person of no small importance. wykeham intended him to live in a separate house, with a separate establishment and an income (£ ) far more splendid than the pittance assigned to the master of balliol or even the warden of merton. the buildings of merton had been kept separate; only by degrees, and as if by accident, had they assumed the familiar and charming form of a quadrangle. the genius of wykeham adopted and adapted the fortuitous plan of merton. at new college we have for the first time a group of collegiate buildings, tower-gateway (the tower assuredly of one "wise of building castles!") chapel, hall, library, treasury, warden's lodgings, chambers, cloister-cemetery, kitchen and domestics offices, designed and comprised in one self-sufficing quadrangle ( - ). just as the statutes of new college are the rule of merton enormously elaborated, so the plan of the buildings is that of merton modified and systematised. the type of new college served as a model for all subsequent foundations. the most noticeable features in this arrangement are that the hall and chapel are under one roof, and that the chapel consists of a choir, suitable to the needs of a small congregation, and of a nave of two bays, stopping short at the transepts, and forming an ante-chapel which might serve both as a vestibule and as a room for lectures and disputations. the chapel, which contains much very beautiful glass and the lovely if inappropriate window-pictures of sir joshua reynolds, must have been in wykeham's day, when it was adorned with a magnificent reredos and "works of many colours," a thing of even greater beauty than it now is. the chapels of magdalen, all souls' and wadham were directly imitated from it. but, with the hall, it suffered much at the hands of wyatt and sir gilbert scott. the latter was also responsible for the atrocious new buildings. the proportions of the front quadrangle were spoilt by the addition of a third story and the insertion of square windows in the seventeenth century. the importance of the chapel architecturally, dominating the quadrangle as it does and absorbing the admiration of the visitor or the dweller in those courts, is indicative of the ecclesiastical aspect of the new foundation, which the great opponent of wycliffe intended to revivify the church by training secular priests of ability. this ecclesiastical aspect is still more prominent in the case of all souls', which, like magdalen, may fitly be described as a daughter of new college, so much do they both owe, as regards their rule and their architectural design, to the great foundation of wykeham. the deterioration and ignorance of the parochial clergy were amongst the most serious symptoms of the decadence of the fifteenth century. himself a wykehamist and a successful ecclesiastical lawyer, the great archbishop chichele therefore followed wykeham's example and founded a college which might help to educate and to increase the secular clergy. out of the revenues of the suppressed alien priories he endowed a society consisting of a warden and forty fellows, of doctors and masters who were to study philosophy, theology and law. his college was not, therefore, and happily is not (though now it takes its full share of educational work), a mere body of teachers, but of graduate students. the prominence given to the study of law and divinity resulted in a close connection with the public services which has always been maintained. but "all souls'" was a chantry as well as a college. as head of the english church and a responsible administrator of the crown, chichele had devoted all his powers to the prosecution of that war with france, for which shakespeare, following hall, has represented him as being responsible. the college is said to have been the archbishop's expiation for the blood so shed. whatever his motive, his object is stated clearly enough. it was to found a "college of poor and indigent clerks bounden with all devotion to pray for the souls of the glorious memory of henry v., lately king of england and france, the duke of clarence and the other lords and lieges of the realm of england, whom the havoc of that warfare between the two realms hath drenched with the bowl of bitter death, and also for the souls of all the faithful departed." chichele had already undertaken the foundation of s. bernard's college. he now (september ) purchased bedford hall, or charleton's inn, at the corner of cat street,[ ] directly opposite the eastern end of s. mary's church. on this site, in the following february, was laid the foundation stone of the college afterwards incorporated under the title of "the warden and all soulen college," or "the warden and college of all faithful souls deceased at oxford." as adam de brome had persuaded edward ii. to be the foster-founder of oriel, so chichele asked henry vi. to be the nominal founder of his college. the royal patronage proved advantageous in neither case. the front quadrangle of all souls' remains very much as the founder left it; the hall and the noble codrington library in the italian style, the cloister of the great quadrangle and the odd twin towers belong to the first half of the eighteenth century. the latter are curious specimens of that mixture of the gothic and renaissance styles (nicholas hawksmoor), of which the best that can be said is that "the architect has blundered into a picturesque scenery not devoid of grandeur" (walpole). the political and social troubles of the fifteenth century brought about a period of darkness and stagnation in the university. the spirit of independence and reform had been crushed by the ecclesiastics. oxford had learnt her lesson. she took little part in politics, but played the time-server, and was always loyal--to one party or the other. she neglected her duties; she neither taught nor thought, but devoted all her energies and resources to adorning herself with beautiful colleges and buildings. and for us the result of this meretricious policy is the possession of those glorious buildings which mark the interval between the middle ages and the renaissance. for the university now built herself schools that were worthy of her dower of knowledge. there was a vacant spot at the end of schools street belonging to balliol college, lying between the town wall on the north and exeter college on the west. on this site it was determined to erect a school of divinity ( ). donations flowed in from the bishops and monasteries. but in spite of all economy funds ran short. the building had to be discontinued for a while ( ). the gift of marks from the executors of cardinal beaufort, a former chancellor, enabled the graduates to proceed with their work. they made strenuous efforts to raise money. they put a tax on all non-resident masters and bachelors; they offered "graces" for sale; they applied to the pope and bishops for saleable indulgences. in return for a contribution of one hundred pounds from the old religious orders, they agreed to modify the ancient statutes concerning the admission of monks to academical degrees. some of these methods of raising the necessary monies are doubtless open to criticism, but we cannot cavil when we look upon the noble building which the graduates were thus enabled to raise. the divinity school, to which, casaubon declared, nothing in europe was comparable, was, with its "vaulting of peculiar skill," used, though not completed, in . it remained to construct an upper story where the books belonging to the university might be kept and used. for generous gifts of books ( - ) by humphrey, duke of gloucester, uncle of henry vi., had greatly increased the university library. the fashion of large and gorgeous libraries was borrowed by the english from the french princes. the duke had taken his opportunity during his campaigns in france. he seized the valuable collection of books at the louvre, and many of them had now found their way to oxford. they were stored at first in the cobham library, but more room was needed. accordingly, in , the university addressed a letter to the duke in which they informed him of their intention to erect a new building suitable to contain his magnificent gift, and on a site far removed from the hum of men. of this building, with that gratitude which is in part at least a lively sense of favours to come, they asked permission of the very learned and accomplished duke to inscribe his name as founder. the duke humphrey library forms now the central portion of the great reading room of the bodleian library. it still answers, by virtue of its position and the arrangement of its cubicles, to the description and intention of the promotors--to build a room where scholars might study far removed _a strepitu sæculari_, from the noise of the world. the three wheat-sheaves of the kempe shield, repeated again and again on the elaborate groined roof of the divinity school, commemorate the bounty of thomas kempe, bishop of london, who ( ) promised to give marks for the completion of the school and the library. a grateful university rewarded him with anniversary services; his name is still mentioned in the "bidding prayer" on solemn occasions. nor was duke humphrey forgotten. his name still heads the list of benefactors recited from time to time in s. mary's. religious services were instituted also for his benefit. he was more in need of them, perhaps, than the bishop. for the "good duke humphrey" was good only so far as his love of learning and his generosity to scholars may entitle him to be considered so. the patron of lydgate and occleve, and the donor of hundreds of rare and polite books to the university was as unscrupulous in his political intrigues as immoral in his private life. but in his case the good he did lived after him. the "good duke" was a reader as well as a collector. it was not merely the outsides of books or the title-pages which attracted him. "his courage never doth appal to study in books of antiquity." so wrote lydgate, who knew. even when he presented his books to the university, he took care to reserve the right of borrowing them, for were they not, according to the inscription which he was wont to insert lovingly in them, all his worldly wealth (_mon bien mondain_)? it is perhaps not surprising to find from the list of books which he gave to the university, that the duke's taste in literature was for the classics, for the works of ovid, cato, aulus gellius and quintilian, for the speeches of cicero, the plays of terence and seneca, the works of aristotle and plato, the histories of suetonius and josephus, of beda and eusebius, higden and vincent of beauvais. a fancy for medical treatises and a pretty taste in italian literature are betrayed by the titles of other books, for the duke gave seven volumes of boccaccio, five of petrarch and two of dante to the university. duke humphrey promised to give the whole of his collection to the university, together with a hundred pounds to go towards the [illustration: kemp hall] building of the library. but he died suddenly, and the university never, as it appears, received full advantage of his generosity. it was not till that the books were removed from s. mary's. for the completion of the library was delayed by an order from edward iv. the workmen employed upon the building were summoned by him to windsor, where he had need of them, to work at s. george's chapel. those who were not employed on the chapel were handed over to william of waynflete, who restored them to the university along with some scaffolding which had been used in the building of magdalen. william patten or barbour of waynflete, an oxford man, who had been master of the school at winchester, had been appointed first master and then provost of eton by the founder, henry vi., and was rewarded for his success there by the bishopric of winchester. in he had founded a hall for the study of theology and philosophy, situated between the present schools and logic lane, and called it, probably after the almshouse at winchester, of which he had been master, the hall of s. mary magdalen. when he became lord chancellor he immediately took steps to enlarge this foundation, transferred it to the site of the hospital of s. john, and styled it the college of s. mary magdalen (september ). waynflete resigned the chancellorship just before the battle of northampton. after some years, during which he was "in great dedignation with edward iv.," he received full pardon from his late master's conqueror. the yorkist monarch (whose fine statue is over the west doorway of the chapel) also confirmed the grants made to waynflete's college in the last reign. after an interval, then, the foundation stone of the most beautiful college in the world, "the most absolute building in oxford," as james i. called it when his son matriculated there, was laid "in the midst of the high altar" ( th may ). already enclosing walls had been built about the property, which was bounded on the east by the cherwell, on the south by the high street, on the west by what is now long wall street, and on the north by the lands of holywell. the "long wall" bounded the "grove," famous, since the beginning of the eighteenth century, for its noble timber and herd of deer. most of the trees in the present grove are elms planted in the seventeenth century, but there are two enormous wych elms, measured by oliver wendell holmes in , which would have dwarfed that venerable oak which stood near the entrance into the water-walk, and was blown down "into the meadow" in . it was over seven hundred years old (girth ft. in., height ft. in.), and thought to be the same as that named by the founder for a northern boundary. in the arrangement of his buildings waynflete followed wykeham. chapel, hall and library were designed on the same plan. but the beautiful "founder's tower," rendered now still more lovely by the drapery of creepers which hangs about it, formed the principal entrance into cloisters, which were part of the buildings of the main quadrangle, carried an upper story of chambers, and were adorned with grotesques symbolical of the vices and virtues. the entrance now used was originally meant to serve only as the entrance from the cloister to the chapel. it was adorned (_circa_ ) with a gateway similar to that designed by inigo jones for the main entrance to the college. the statutes were based on those of new college, but, in addition to those of which we have already had occasion to speak, there were certain notable improvements. the society was to consist of a president and seventy scholars besides four chaplains, eight clerks and sixteen choristers. forty of these scholars were fellows forming one class, and thirty were demies, forming another, whose tenure was limited and who were given half the allowance of the fellows. they had no special claim to promotion to fellowships. for their instruction a grammar master and an usher were provided; when they were well skilled in grammar, they were to [illustration: the founder's tower magdalen college] be taught logic and sophistry by the college lecturers, whilst three "readers," in natural and moral philosophy and theology, chosen out of the university, were to provide the higher teaching in arts and theology. and all this teaching, in theology and philosophy and also in grammar, was to be given free to all comers at the expense of the college. in waynflete, full of pride in his new foundation, "the most noble and rich structure in the learned world," persuaded edward iv. to come over from woodstock and see it. the king came at a few hours' notice. but as the royal cavalcade drew near the north gate of the town, a little after sunset, it was met by the chancellor and the masters of the university and a great number of persons carrying lighted torches. the king and his courtiers were hospitably received at magdalen. on the morrow the president delivered a congratulatory address, and the king made a gracious reply; then he and his followers joined in a solemn procession round the precincts and the cloisters of the college. two years later richard iii. was very similarly welcomed by the university and entertained at magdalen. on this occasion the king was regaled with two disputations in the hall. richard declared himself very well pleased; and it is just possible that he was. for one of the disputants was william grocyn, who was rewarded with a buck and three marks for his pains. the university continued its policy of political time-serving, and, after the battle of bosworth field, congratulated henry vii. as fulsomely as it had congratulated richard iii. a few months before. henry retorted by demanding the surrender of robert stillington, bishop of bath and wells, who was staying within the limits of the university. this prelate was accused of "damnable conjuracies and conspiracies," which may have included complicity in the rebellion of lambert simnel. for the future scullion was a native of oxford. the university prevaricated for a while; and at last, when hard pressed, they explained that they would incur the sentence of excommunication if they used force against a prelate of the catholic church. the king then took the matter into his own hands, and committed the offender to prison at windsor for the remainder of his life. he soon afterwards visited oxford, offered a noble in the chapel of magdalen college, and, by way of marking his approval of the university, undertook the maintenance of two students at oxford. in he established at university college an obit for the widow of warwick the king-maker. some years later, in , he endowed the university with ten pounds a year in perpetuity for a religious service to be held in memory of him and his wife and of his parents. on the anniversary of his burial a hearse, covered with rich stuff, was to be set up in the middle of s. mary's church before the great crucifix, and there the chancellor, the masters and the scholars were to recite certain specified prayers. among the articles in the custody of the verger of the university is a very fine ancient pall of rich cloth of gold, embroidered with the arms and badges of henry vii., the tudor rose and the portcullis, that typify the union of the houses of york and lancaster. penurious in most matters, henry vii. showed magnificence in building and in works of piety. in westminster abbey he erected one of the grandest chantries in christendom; and it was for the exclusive benefit of the monks of westminster that he established at oxford three scholarships in divinity, called after his name, and each endowed with a yearly income of ten pounds (maxwell lyte). of henry's parents, his mother, the lady margaret, countess of richmond,[ ] took a warm interest in oxford as in cambridge, where she founded two colleges. it was she who founded the [illustration: magdalen bridge & tower] two readerships in divinity at oxford ( ) and cambridge, the oldest professorial chairs that exist in either university. his characteristically frugal offering was not the only sign of his favour which henry vouchsafed to magdalen. he sent his eldest son, prince arthur, frequently to oxford. when there the boy stayed in the president's lodgings and the purchase of two marmosets for his amusement is recorded in the college accounts. one of the old pieces of tapestry preserved in the president's lodgings represents the marriage of the prince with catherine of aragon. it was probably presented to the president (mayhew) by him. it is possible that henry vii. also contributed to the cost of building that bell tower, which is the pride of magdalen and the chief ornament of oxford. the tower was built between the years and . wolsey was a junior fellow when the tower was begun, and though popular tradition ascribes to him the credit of the idea and even the design of that exquisite campanile, the fact that not he, but another senior fellow (gosmore by name) was appointed to superintend the work, is evidence, so far as there is any evidence, that wolsey had no particular share in the design. he was, however, senior bursar in . but the story that he left the college because he had wrongly applied some of its funds to the building of the tower, is not borne out by any evidence in the college records. he ceased to be a fellow of magdalen about , having been instituted to the rectory of lymington. but he had filled the office of dean of divinity after his term as senior bursar was over. we have referred to the close connection of the house of lancaster with waynflete's foundation. by a curious freak of popular imagination the name of henry vii. as well as that of the future cardinal has been intimately connected with this tower. besides other benefactions, he granted a licence for the conveyance to the college of the advowsons of slymbridge and of findon. in return the college undertook to keep an obit for him every year. this celebration was originally fixed on the nd or rd of october, but it has been held on the st of may since the sixteenth century. the coincidence of this ceremony with the most interesting and picturesque custom of singing on magdalen tower has given rise to the fable that a payment made to the college by the rectory of slymbridge was intended to maintain the celebration of a requiem mass for the soul of henry vii. and the hymn that is now sung is the survival, says the popular myth, of that requiem. for in the early morning of may day all the members of waynflete's foundation, the president and fellows and demies with the organist and choir, clad in white surplices ascend the tall tower that stands sombre, grey and silent in the half-light of the coming day. there are a few moments of quiet watching, and the eye gazes at the distant hills, as the white mists far below are rolled away by the rising sun. the clock strikes five, and as the sound of the strokes floats about the tower, suddenly from the throats of the well-trained choir on the morning air rises the may day hymn. the hymn is finished, and a merry peal of bells rings out. the tower rocks and seems to swing to the sound of the bells as a well made bell tower should. and the members of the college having thus commemorated the completion of their campanile, descend once more to earth, to bathe in the cherwell, or to return to bed. for a repetition of an inaugural ceremony is what this function probably is, and it has nothing to do, so much can almost certainly be said, with any requiem mass. the hymn itself is no part of any use. it was written by a fellow of the college, thomas smith, and set to music as part of the college "grace" by benjamin rogers, the college organist, towards the end of the seventeenth century. whether or no the origin and meaning of the singing was to commemorate the completion of the tower, the singing itself would appear to have borne originally a secular character. "the choral ministers of this house," says wood, "do, according to an ancient custom, salute flora every year on the first of may, at four in the morning, with vocal music of several parts. which having been sometimes well performed, hath given great content to the neighbourhood, and auditors underneath." the substitution of a hymn from the college grace for the "merry concert of both vocal and instrumental music, consisting of several merry ketches, and lasting almost two hours," which was the form the performance took in the middle of the eighteenth century, was made on one occasion when the weather was very inclement. once made it was found easier and more suitable to continue it, and the observance came to be religious.[ ] magdalen tower is one of those rarely beautiful buildings, which strike you with a silent awe of admiration when first you behold them, and ever afterwards reveal to your admiring gaze new aspects and unsuspected charms. it is changeable as a woman, but its changes are all good and there is nothing else about it that is feminine. it conveys the impression that it is at once massive and slender, and its very slenderness is male. the chaste simplicity of the lower stories carries the eye up unchecked to the ornamented belfry windows, the parapet and surmounting pinnacles, and thus enhances the impression of perfect and reposeful proportion. the growth of the colleges had influenced the halls. statutes imposed by the authority of the university, began to take the place of the private rule of custom and tradition approved and enforced by the authority of the self-governing scholars. the students quickly ceased to be autonomous scholars and became disciplined schoolboys. the division between don and undergraduate began to be formed and was rapidly accentuated. thus, at the close of the mediæval period, a change had been wrought in the character of the university, which rendered it an institution very different from that which it had been in the beginning. the growth of nationalism, the separation of languages and the establishment of the collegiate system--these and similar causes tended to give the universities a local and aristocratic character. the order introduced by the colleges was accompanied by the introduction of rank, and of academical power and influence stored in the older, permanent members of the university. learning, too, had ceased to be thought unworthy of a gentleman; it became a matter of custom for young men of rank to have a university education. thus, in the charter of edward iii., we even read that "to the university a multitude of nobles, gentry, strangers and others continually flock"; and towards the end of the century we find henry of monmouth, afterwards henry v., as a young man, a sojourner at queen's college. but it was in the next century that colleges were provided, not for the poor, but for the noble. many colleges, too, which had been originally intended for the poor, opened their gates to the rich, not as fellows or foundation students, but as simple lodgers, such as monasteries might have received in a former age. this change has continued to be remarkably impressed upon oxford and cambridge even down to this day. the influence of other political classes was now also introduced. never, as newman said, has a learned institution been more directly political and national than the university of oxford. some of its colleges came to represent the talent of the nation, others its rank and fashion, others its wealth; others have been the organs of the government of the day; while others, and the majority, represented one or other division, chiefly local, of opinion in the country. the local limitation of the members of many colleges, the west country character of exeter, the north country character of queen's or university, the south country character of new college, the welsh character of jesus college, for instance, tended to accentuate this peculiarity. the whole nation was thus brought into the university by means of the colleges, which fortunately were sufficiently numerous, and no one of them overwhelmingly important. a vigour and a stability were thus imparted to the university such as the abundant influx of foreigners had not been able to secure. as in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, french, german and italian students had flocked to oxford, and made its name famous in distant lands; so in the fifteenth all ranks and classes of the land furnished it with pupils, and what was wanting in their number or variety, compared with the former era, was made up by their splendour or political importance. the sons of the nobles came up to the university, each accompanied by an ample retinue; the towns were kept in touch with the university by means of the numerous members of it who belonged to the clerical order. town and country, high and low, north and south, had a common stake in the academical institutions, and took a personal interest in the academical proceedings. the degree possessed a sort of indelible character which all classes understood; and the people at large were more or less partakers of a cultivation which the aristocracy were beginning to appreciate. oxford, in fact, became the centre of national and political thought. not only in vacations and term time was there a stated ebbing and flowing of the academical youth, but messengers posted to and fro between oxford and all parts of the country in all seasons of the year. so intimate was this connection, that oxford became, as it were, the selected arena for the conflicts of the various interests of the nation. chapter vi oxford and the reformation in christendom was shocked by the news that the turks had taken constantinople. the home of learning and the citadel of philosophy was no more. the wisdom of hellas, so it seemed to contemporary scholars like Æneas sylvius, was destined likewise to perish. in fact, it was but beginning to be diffused. scholars fled with what mss. they could save to the hospitable shores of italy. and at the very time that these fugitives were hastening across the adriatic, it is probable that the sheets of the mazarin bible were issuing from the press at maintz. thus whilst italy was rescuing from destruction the most valuable thought of the ancient world, germany was devising the means for its diffusion in lands of which strabo never heard, and to an extent of which the sosii never dreamed. the italians acquired the greek language with rapidity and ardour. the student flung aside his scholastic culture; cast away the study of an aristotle that had been conformed to christian theology, and the sentences in which that theology was enshrined, and tried to identify himself in feeling with the spirit of cultivated paganism. the cowl and the gown were discarded for the tunic and the toga. but the new learning did not make its way at once to england. and when at length the englishmen who had travelled and studied in italy brought back with them something of the generous enthusiasm with which they had been fired, their ideas were but coldly welcomed by the followers of thomas or the disciples of duns. at oxford the new movement took but a momentary hold of only a small part of the university, and then was shaken off by the massive inertness of the intellectual stagnation characteristic of the country. "they prefer their horses and their dogs to poets," wrote poggio; "and like their horses and their dogs they shall perish and be forgotten." the majority of englishmen are always slow to accept new ideas. they move ponderously and protestingly in the wake of the continent. the new learning was as unwelcome at oxford as if it had been a motor car. the schoolmen were still busily chopping their logic, when the medicis were ransacking the world for a new play, when poggio was writing his "facetiæ" or editing tacitus, and pope nicholas was founding the vatican library at rome. and the renaissance, when it did begin to work in england, took the form of a religious reformation; the religious genius of the nation led it to the worship, not of beauty, but of truth. the english were equally late in adopting the new german art of printing. when caxton introduced it, it had almost reached its perfection abroad. block books--books printed wholly from carved blocks of wood--had come in and gone out. arising out of them, the idea of movable types had long been invented and developed on the continent. the bamberg and mazarin bibles, the first two books to be printed from movable type, had been produced by gutenberg, fust and schöffer as early as . but it was not till that caxton set up his press at westminster. a year later the first book was issued from an oxford press. this was the famous small quarto of forty-two leaves, "exposicio sancti jeronimi in simbolum apostolorum," written by tyrannius rufinus of aquileia. the colophon of this book, however, distinctly states that it was printed in : "impressa oxonie et ibi finita anno domini m.cccc.lxviij, xvij die decembris." but there is every reason to suppose that an x has been omitted from this date and that the true year was . such a misprint is not uncommon. exactly the same error occurs in books published at venice, at barcelona and at augsburg. the workmanship is very much the same as, but slightly inferior to, that of the next two books which came from the oxford press in . and in the library of all souls' there is a copy of each of these, which were originally bound up together. a break of eleven years between the production of the first and subsequent books is both inconceivable and inexplicable. the press from which these books and twelve others were issued at oxford during the eight years, - , was apparently set up by one theodore rood of cologne. the first three books, however, namely the "exposicio" mentioned, the "Ægidius de originali peccato," and "textus ethicorum aristotelis per leonardum aretinum translatus," bear no printer's name, but the type was either brought from cologne or directly copied from cologne examples. it strongly resembles that used by gerard ten raem de berka or guldenschaff. still, it cannot be proved that rood printed these first three books, or that he ever used the type in which they alone are printed. the colophon of the fourth book, a latin commentary on the "de anima" of aristotle by alexander de hales, a folio printed from new type, gives the name of the printer, theodore rood, and bears the date . a copy of it was bought in the year of publication for the library of magdalen, where it still remains. the price paid was thirty-three shillings and fourpence. a very beautiful copy of the next book, "commentary on the lamentation of jeremiah," by john lattebury, , is in the library of all souls'. four leaves survive in the bodleian and four in the merton library, of the "cicero pro milone," the first edition of a classic printed in england. two leaves of a latin grammar are to be found in the british museum. rood went into partnership with an oxford stationer named thomas hunt, and together they produced eight other books with a type more english in character than the preceding ones. one of these books, "phalaris," (wadham and corpus libraries), has a curious colophon in verse, which describes the printers and their ambition to surpass the venetians in their work. the partners ceased to produce books after . rood probably returned to cologne, and the german art found no exponents in oxford for the remainder of the century. subsequently we find leicester advancing money to set up joseph barnes with a new press. laud and fell were other great patrons of the university press. meantime the return of the pope to rome had attracted many foreign travellers and students to italy, who could not fail to be impressed by the new birth of art and intellectual life that was taking place in that country. among the pupils of guarino of verona at ferrara the names of at least five students from oxford occur. of these, robert fleming, a relative of the founder of lincoln college, was an author of some distinction, and he compiled a græco-latin dictionary at a time when greek was almost unknown in england. he brought back from his travels in italy many precious books, which he gave to the library of lincoln college. william grey, another of guarino's pupils, enriched the library of balliol with many fine manuscripts redolent of the new learning. john tiptoft, earl of worcester, was another scholar who, before paying for his share in politics with his head, presented to the university the valuable collection of manuscripts, which he had made in the course of his travels. william selling, a member of the recent foundation of all souls', was perhaps the earliest englishman of influence to catch from italy the inspiration of the greek muse. on his return from that country, he was appointed to the conventual school at canterbury. his knowledge of greek, and his enthusiasm for greek literature, became the germ of the study in england. thomas linacre was one of his pupils, who, after studying at oxford under vitelli, journeyed to italy with selling. he was introduced to politian at florence. thence he proceeded to rome, and there perhaps formed his taste for the scientific writings of aristotle and his devotion to the study of medicine, which afterwards found expression in the foundation of the college of physicians and of the two lectureships at merton, now merged into the chair which bears his name. linacre returned to oxford and lectured there awhile before being appointed physician to henry viii. his translation of five medical treatises of galen was, erasmus declared, more valuable than the original greek. we have said that he studied under vitelli. it was cornelio vitelli who, some time before , first "introduced polite literature to the schools of oxford," by a lecture as prelector of new college, upon which the warden, thomas chandler, complimented him in a set latin speech. this was probably that cornelius who, in company with two other italians, cyprian and nicholas by name, dined with the president of magdalen on christmas day, . and from the lips of this pioneer william grocyn himself learned greek. grocyn was a fellow of new college ( - ), but he afterwards removed to magdalen as reader in theology. he completed his study of greek and latin by a sojourn of two years ( ) at florence, under demetrius chalcondylas and politian. on his return to oxford he took rooms in exeter college ( ), and gave a course of lectures on greek. a few years later ( - ) the first step in the revolution against the system under which the study of the bible had been ousted by the study of the sentences was taken. a course of lectures by john colet on the epistles of s. paul was the first overt act in a movement towards practical christian reform. it was from grocyn and linacre that thomas more and erasmus learnt greek. for gibbon's epigram that erasmus learned greek at oxford and taught it at cambridge is true, if we qualify it by the reminder that he knew a little before he came to england and learned more in the years which intervened between the time when, much to the chagrin of colet, he left oxford and went to cambridge as an instructor in that language. erasmus had taught at paris. he went to oxford ( ) to learn and to observe. his return home from london had been delayed unexpectedly. he determined to use the opportunity of paying a visit to oxford. the reputation of the learned men there attracted him more than the company of "the gold-chained courtiers" of the capital. he was received as an inmate of s. mary's college, which had been built as a house for students of his own augustinian order ( ). this house, when it was dissolved ( ), was converted into a hall for students, and then into a charitable institution (bridewell). the site, on the east side of new inn hall street, is occupied by a house and garden, now called frewen hall, which was chosen in as the residence of the prince of wales during his studies at oxford. the west gateway, a few remains of groining and the wall facing the street north of the gate are practically all that remains of the building as erasmus saw it, unless we reckon the roof of the chapel of b.n.c., which is said to have been taken from the chapel of s. mary's college. erasmus had nothing to complain of in his welcome to oxford. he found the prior of his college, richard charnock, an intelligent companion and useful friend. colet, having heard from charnock of his arrival, addressed to him a letter of welcome, which in the midst of its formal civility has a characteristic touch of puritan sincerity. to this erasmus replied in his own rhetorical fashion with a letter of elaborate compliment. his wit, his learning and the charm of his brilliant conversation soon won him friends. delightful himself, he found everybody delightful. the english girls were divinely pretty, and he admired their custom of kissing visitors. erasmus made a fair show in the hunting-field, and was charmed with everything, even with our english climate. "the air," he wrote from oxford, "is soft and delicious. the men are sensible and intelligent. many of them are even learned, and not superficially either. they know their classics and so accurately that i seem to have lost little in not going to italy. when colet speaks i might be listening to plato. linacre is as deep and acute a thinker as i have ever met. grocyn is a mine of knowledge, and nature never formed a sweeter and happier disposition than that of thomas more. the number of young men who are studying ancient literature here is astonishing." in one of his letters he gives a very lively picture of a gathering of witty divines at the house of his "sweet and amiable friend" colet, when the latter "spoke with a sacred fury" and erasmus himself, finding the conversation growing too serious for a social gathering, entertained the company with a happily invented tale. at oxford, then, the great centre of theological study, he was learning something of the methods of the theologians. they were not strange to him, for he knew paris. but the oxford school was in his mind when he poured forth his shafts of ridicule upon scholastic divines in his brilliant satire, "the praise of folly." yet it was at oxford that colet had taught him to detest the authority of thomas aquinas, and to apply to the study of the new testament the knowledge and methods indicated by the study of greek literature. his "moria" and his "novum instrumentum," therefore, the books which prepared the way for the reformation, were his protest, and the protest of the christian laity along with him, against the authority of the clergy and against the popular theology which was based on the errors of the vulgate. erasmus laid the egg and luther hatched it--a very different bird, as the former declared. the fact was that throughout europe the growing intelligence of the educated class was slowly but surely developing in antagonism, not merely to specific doctrines, but to the whole spirit of mediæval theology. the old learning was threatened with destruction. it rose in arms against greek and heresy. bishops fulminated. the clergy cried antichrist, and clamoured for sword and faggot. the universities forbade the sale of erasmus's writings, and, seeing what came of the study of greek, declared that they would have no more of it. oxford divided itself into two bodies, who called themselves greeks and trojans, the trojans enormously preponderating. the "greeks," the adherents of the new learning, were assailed with every kind of ridicule. they were openly derided in the streets and abused from the pulpit. in after years tyndale, who had been a student at magdalen hall, could recall how "the old barking curs, duns' disciples and like draff called scotists, the children of darkness, raged in every pulpit against greek, latin and hebrew, and what sorrow the schoolmasters that taught the true latin tongue had with them, some beating the pulpit with their fists for madness, and roaring out with open and foaming mouth, that if there were but one terence or vergil in the world, and that same in their sleeve, and a fire before them, they would burn them therin, though it should cost them their lives." news of what was going on reached the court at abingdon. at the king's command, more wrote to the governing body of the university to rebuke the intemperance of the trojan clique. but the heads of houses were sleeping over a volcano, and more's letter could not rouse them from their slumber. for the present the result was that the little band of pioneers in the new learning one by one departed out of their coasts. "the cardinal of york," more writes, "will not permit these studies to be meddled with." wolsey, of course, as well as the king, more and archbishop warham, the chancellor, was on the side of the new learning. he defrayed the expenses of many lectures, for which the university repeatedly thanked him. he engaged a famous spanish scholar, juan luis vives, to occupy his new chair of rhetoric; and he sent a rising english scholar, thomas lupset, from paris to lecture on the classics at oxford. vives was the first professor of humanity (or latin) at corpus christi, the first of the renaissance colleges. his special function it was to banish all "barbarism" from the "bee-hive," as the founder fondly called his college, by lecturing daily on the classics. tradition says that the professor was welcomed to his new home by a swarm of bees, which, to signify the incomparable sweetness of his eloquence, settled under the leads of his chambers. [illustration: niche & sundial, corpus christi college] the founder of c.c.c., richard foxe, bishop of winchester, was a prelate, statesman, architect, soldier, herald and diplomatist, who, in the very encyclopædic nature of his talents, was a typical product of the renaissance. he had been bishop of exeter, of bath and wells and of durham before he was translated to winchester; he had been keeper of the privy seal and secretary of state, and had played an important part in the history of his country; he had been chancellor of cambridge and master of pembroke college there; but it was chiefly upon oxford that he lavished the wealth he had acquired. having bought some land between merton and s. frideswide's, he proposed at first to establish a college, after the manner of durham college, directly in connection with the monastery of s. swithun at winchester. but before the building was completed, he determined to make it a college for secular students. holinshed gives us the words in which hugh oldham, bishop of exeter, who was intimately associated with him in the work--his arms are to be seen in various places in the existing buildings--persuaded him to this course. "what, my lord, shall we build houses and provide livelihood for a company of bussing monks, whose end and fall we ourselves may live to see? no, no. it is more meet a great deal that we should have care to provide for the increase of learning, and for such as by their learning shall do good in the church and commonwealth." the broad-minded founder accepted this view. he drew up statutes, by means of which he hoped to train men who should help the church to recognise, to lead and to control the new movement. the verdict of his contemporaries with regard to his work and intentions is expressed by erasmus, who wrote that "just as rhodes was once famous for the colossus, and caria for the tomb of mausolus, so the new college at oxford dedicated to the most profitable literature would be recognised throughout the civilised world as one of the chief ornaments of britain." the influence of the renaissance is writ large over foxe's statutes. what is remarkable in them is the provision he made for the teaching of the new learning. as he furnished his students with a library, rich in classical mss. and books in greek, latin and hebrew, a "bibliotheca trilinguis" which erasmus declared would attract more students than rome had done hitherto; so also, in addition to the twenty fellows and twenty scholars of his college, he endowed three readers, in greek, in latin, and in theology. natives of greece and italy were to be specially eligible for these offices; greek as well as latin might be spoken in hall, and some acquaintance with the works of roman poets, orators and historians, no less than with logic and philosophy, was to be required of candidates for scholarships, who must also prove their fitness by ability to compose verses and write letters in latin. cicero, sallust, valerius maximus, suetonius, pliny, livy and quintilian are enumerated in the statutes as the prose writers, and vergil, ovid, lucan, juvenal, terence and plautus as the poets to be expounded by the professor of humanity. the works of lorenzo valla, aulus gellius and politian are recommended as suitable subjects of study during the three vacations. the professor of greek, an officer unknown in any earlier college, was required to lecture, and to lecture to the whole university, not only on grammar, but also on the works of isocrates, lucian, philostratus, aristophanes, theocritus, euripides, sophocles, pindar, hesiod, demosthenes, thucydides, aristotle and plutarch. the third "reader" appointed by foxe was to expound the old testament and the new in alternate years. he was not, however, to be content with the comments of the schoolmen, but was "to follow so far as possible the ancient and holy doctors both latin and greek." it will be seen that these statutes form, as it were, at once a charter and a corpus of the new learning. patristic theology was to be restored to the place of honour whence the quibbles of the schoolmen had banished it; the masterpieces of the ancient world were, in future, to be studied instead of the second-rate philosophers and slovenly writers of the dark ages. apart from the fascinating hall and library, the buildings of corpus are less distinguished than her history. the curious sundial, surmounted by a pelican vulning herself in piety, which stands in the centre of the front quadrangle, was erected by a fellow in . as at all souls' and elsewhere, the name of the college is indicated by sculpture over the gateway--a group of angels bearing a pyx, the receptacle of the sacramental host, the body of christ (corpus christi). the pastoral staff, a chalice and paten, which belonged to the founder, are still preserved. they rank among the finest examples of the work of english mediæval silversmiths. the connection between magdalen and c.c.c. was always close. foxe, indeed, is said to have been at magdalen, and to have [illustration: first quadrangle corpus christi college.] left oxford on account of a pestilence. it is at any rate noteworthy that he makes special provision against plagues in his statutes. the severity and frequency of plagues of one sort or another were a serious obstacle to the prosperity of the university, and therefore of the city, throughout this century. the causes are not far to seek. for centuries filth and garbage had been allowed to accumulate in the ill-made, unswept streets. and though the king might write to the burghers and command them to remove the nuisances of this sort from before their doors, the efforts to deal with them were only spasmodic. brewers and bakers, again, were forbidden by the king's edict ( ) to make use of the foul waters of trill mill stream for the making of their bread and ale. but police was inefficient, and the health of the scholars frequently suffered from a renewal of this insanitary practice. regrators, who burned before their doors stinking fat and suet, were also forbidden by edward iii. to pursue their habits, and the citizens were enjoined to repair the pavements in front of their houses. but in spite of regulations and restrictions butchers persisted in slaughtering their beasts in their homes and fouling the trill mill stream with offal. inundations from the cherwell and the thames, not yet regulated and confined by the conservancy board, occasionally swamped even the cloisters of magdalen and left behind a legacy of mud, damp and malaria. sweating sickness--a kind of rheumatic fever--struck oxford hard in . in the following years other loathsome diseases, attributed to the noisome smells which arose from the marshy grounds around the city and the obstructed state of the thames, manifested themselves and caused the students to fly. frequent instances are recorded of fellows obtaining permission to leave oxford on account of the pestilence. in most of the members of oriel removed to a farm at dean; in the inmates of new college fled on the outbreak of some illness, and the fellows of university college dispersed on the same account in . from magdalen, in unhealthy seasons, there were frequent migrations of a large portion of the society to witney or to brackley, where the hospital had been indicated by the founder as a place to which such migrations might be made. but it was in that the sweating sickness broke out in its severest form. many persons died within a few hours of being attacked by the disease; public business was postponed, and the lecture rooms were closed. the festival of s. john was stopped. it was decreed that all clerks who thought themselves in danger might be absent until october. it might almost have been the influenza ( ). the plague broke out in , so that the university term had to be deferred. it broke out again in the following years, and culminated, in , in the "black assizes." rowland jencks, a bookbinder, had been seized and sent to london for railing against the commonwealth and the established religion. his house was searched for "bulls, libels, and suchlike things against the queen and religion." he was returned to oxford to be committed to prison. at the assizes, held in the court house at the castle-yard, he was condemned to lose his ears. no sooner was the prisoner removed from the crowded court than, as wood tells us, "there arose such an infectious damp or breath among the people, that many there present, to the apprehensions of most men, were then smothered and others so deeply infected that they lived not many hours after. above sickened in one night; and the day after, the infectious air being carried into the next villages, sickened there an hundred more. the number of persons that died in five weeks' space were in oxford, and and odd in other places; so that the whole number that died in that time were persons, of whom many bled till they expired." the description of the disease given by wood reminds one of thucydides' account of the plague at athens. the outbreak was attributed by some to the roman catholics, who were said to have used magic to revenge themselves for the cropping of jencks' ears, but the explanation suggested by a remark of bacon is more probable. "the most pernicious infection next to the plague," he says, "is the smell of the jail, when prisoners have been long and close nastily kept." in the plague again threatened. this time measures were taken to improve the sanitary conditions of the place. regulations were introduced, which do not greatly differ from the precautions of modern legislation. it was, for instance, ordained that-- "no person shall cast or lay any donge, dust, ordure, rubbish, carreyne or any other thing noyant into any the waters ryvers or streams or any the streets, wayes or lanes. but every person shall swepe together & take up the said things noyant out of the channel of the street so far as their ground reacheth and cause the same to be carried away twice every week. all privies & hogsties set or made over upon or adjoining to any the waters or streames leading to any brew-house shall be removed & taken away. no person shall keep any hogs or swine within the said city but only within their own several backsides; no butcher shall keep any slaughter house or kill any oxen kyne shepe or calves within the walls. all pavements shall be made and amended in places defective and all chimneys occupied with fire shall from henceforth be swept four times every year." these ordinances, it will be seen, provided against the customary crying evils of a mediæval town. similar provisions against similar evils are to be found in the archives of most cities in england or france in the sixteenth century. but ordinances are one thing and effective street-police is another. a hundred years later s. james's square was still the receptacle for all offal and cinders, for all the dead cats and dead dogs of westminster, whilst voltaire's scathing description of the streets of paris was no exaggeration. it was a state of affairs on which the plague of london was the grimmest of all possible commentaries. another outbreak of plague in produced an order against plays, which were said to bring too many people, and the plague with them, from london. regulations were also passed against overcrowding in the houses. at the beginning of the reign of james i., however, the infection spread once more from london to oxford. term was prorogued; the colleges broke up; and the citizens were so hard hit that they petitioned the university for aid. a weekly contribution from the colleges alleviated the distress that arose from this doleful sickness. the town was almost deserted; the shops were closed; and only the keepers of the sick or the collectors of relief appeared in the streets--"no not so much as dog or cat." the churches were seldom opened, and grass grew in the common market-place. next year and the next plague broke out again, by which time some arrangements had been made for a system of isolation. yet the mediæval attitude of mind towards medicine and sanitation would seem to have lasted on through the age of reason. for in , when small-pox had many times scourged the town, all attempts at inoculation were formally forbidden by the vice-chancellor and mayor. foxe had aided the rise and rejoiced in the success of wolsey. but that success was not universally popular. in spite of his benefactions to learning, and the university, it was an oxford laureate, one of our earliest satirists, who, when the cardinal was at the height of his power, more monarch than the king himself, attacked him with the most outspoken virulence. a crown of laurel would seem to have been the outward sign and symbol of a degree in rhetoric, and rhetoricians were occasionally styled poets laureate. john skelton, who was perhaps court poet to henry viii., was certainly tutor to prince henry and laureate of both universities. he was very proud of this distinction, and, not being troubled by any excess of modesty, he wrote a poem of lines in praise of himself: "a kynge to me myn habite gave; at oxforth the universyte, auvaunsed to that degre by hole consent of theyr senate, i was made poete laureate." so he says; and cambridge apparently followed suit and admitted him ( ) to a corresponding degree, and likewise encircled his brows with a wreath of laurel. skelton jeered at the cardinal's pride and pomp; at his low birth (his "greasy original") and his lack of scholarship. there was more truth in shakespeare's description of him as a "scholar and a right good one," for the "boy bachelor" had taken his degree of b.a. at fifteen years of age, "a rare thing and seldom seen." he held a fellowship at magdalen, and was bursar for a short while, as we have seen; for six months he acted as master of magdalen school, and in he was instituted to the rectory of lymington, thanks to the favour of the marquis of dorset, whose three sons had been his pupils at the school. it is not every man who is given even one chance in life, but at last to wolsey, as to wykeham, the opportunity came. he pleased the king by the speed with which he performed the first errand on which he was dispatched; and from that time he never ceased to advance in power and the confidence of his sovereign. the account of that episode, which he gave after his fall to george cavendish, is one of the most profitable lessons in history. it is the secret of success as recorded by a bankrupt millionaire. wolsey never allowed his ecclesiastical and political work and honours to make him forget the university which had given him his start in life. in he took his degree of bachelor of divinity. by the university the need for the codification of its statutes, and the unification of the mass of obscure customs and contradictory ordinances of which they were by this time composed, had long been felt. some efforts had indeed already ( ) been made in this direction, but they had come to nothing. graduates who swore to obey the statutes now found themselves in the awkward position of being really unable to find their way through the labyrinth of confused and contradictory enactments. now it happened that an outbreak of the sweating sickness in drove the king and his court from london to abingdon. queen catherine availed herself of the opportunity to pay a visit to oxford, to dine at merton and to worship at the shrine of s. frideswide, whilst wolsey, who escorted her from abingdon, attended a solemn meeting of the graduates at s. mary's and informed them of his design to establish certain daily lectures for the benefit of the university at large. for this purpose it was necessary to alter existing regulations. the graduates seized the opportunity of inviting the cardinal, their "mæcenas," whom they even came to address as "his majesty," to undertake a complete revision of their statutes. in so doing they disregarded the wishes of their chancellor, the archbishop warham. but their action was fruitless, for the cardinal had no time to examine and codify the chaotic enactments of the mediæval academicians. it was at wolsey's request that a charter was granted to the university ( ) which placed the greater part of the city at its mercy. it was now empowered to incorporate any trade, whilst all "members of the privilege" were exempted from having to apply to the city for permission to carry on business. many minor rights and immunities were granted to the chancellor, and no appeal was allowed from his court. "any sentence, just or unjust, by the chancellor against any person, shall be holden good, and for the same sentence, so just or unjust, the chancellor or his deputy shall not be drawn out of the university for false judgment, or for the same vexed or troubled by any written commandment of the king." prior to the issue of this charter there had been grievances arising from the favour shown by the crown to the university, as, for instance, when, a few years back, the colleges and other places of the university had been exempted from the subsidies charged upon the town. the jealousy which had been slumbering now burst into flames. the bailiffs flatly refused to summon a jury under the new terms. they were imprisoned. a writ was issued to enforce the university charter and for the appearance of the mayor and corporation to answer a suit in chancery. the same year ( ) the university, not being able to obtain the assistance of the bailiffs, ordered the bedels to summon a jury for their leet. the city bailiffs closed the door of the guildhall, so that the court thus summoned could not be held. this device they adopted repeatedly. on one occasion wolsey proposed to submit the question to the arbitration of more. but the city perceived their danger and unanimously refused, "for," they remarked, "by such arbitrements in time past, the commissary & procters & their officers of the university hath usurped & daily usurpeth upon the town of divers matters contrary to their compositions." the struggle passed through several stages. the mayor, one michael hethe by name, refused to take the customary oath at s. mary's to maintain the privileges of the university. proceedings were instituted against him. his answer, when he was summoned to appear at s. mary's church and show cause why he should not be declared perjured and excommunicate, was couched in very spirited terms: "recommend me unto your master and shew him, i am here in this town the king's grace's lieutenant for lack of a better, and i know no cause why i should appear before him. i know him not for my ordinary." the court pronounced him contumacious, and sentenced him to be excommunicated. he was obliged to demand absolution, but he did not abate the firmness of his attitude when he obtained it, for he flatly refused to promise "to stand to the law and to obey the commands of the church," though that promise was proposed as a necessary condition of absolution being granted. before the end of this year ( ) the town made a direct petition to the king against the university, in which the chief incidents in the hard-fought battle are recounted in detail. complaint is made, for instance, that the commissary "doth take fourpence for the sale of every horse-lode of fresh salmon, & one penny of every seme of fresshe herrings, which is extorcyon": and again "another time he sent for one william falofelde & demanded of him a duty that he should give him a pint of wine of every hogshead that he did set a-broach, for his taste. and the said william answered and said that he knew no such duty to be had, if he knew it he would gladly give it. and thereupon the said commissary said he would make him know that it was his duty & so sent him to prison: and so ever since, for fear of imprisonment, the said william falofelde hath sent him wine when he sent for it, which is to the great losse and hindrance of the said william falofelde." in order to compel submission on the part of the city, the mayor and twenty of the citizens were discommoned in , so that "no schollar nor none of their servants, should buy nor sell with none of them, neither eat nor drink in their houses, under pain of for every time of so doing to forfeit to the commissary of s. and d." for twenty years the quarrel dragged on, till at last both parties grew weary. in arbitrators were called in, and wolsey's charter was repealed. but under elizabeth, when in leicester they had elected a chancellor of sufficient power to represent their interests, the university began to endeavour to regain the privileges and franchises which, as they maintained, had only been in abeyance. an act of parliament was procured which confirmed the old obnoxious charter of , but with a clause of all the liberties of the mayor and town. this clause led the way to fresh acts of aggression on either side, and renewed recriminations and disputes until, on the report of two judges, a series of orders was promulgated by the privy council ( ), intended to set at rest the differences between the two bodies for ever. but the result fell short of the intention. the opposition at this time had been led by one william noble, who lived in the old house known as le swynstock. smarting under the sting of false imprisonment, noble commenced suits in the star chamber against the university, and presented petitions both against that body and the mayor and citizens. his popularity was such that he was elected member of parliament for the city. wolsey, as we have seen, had taken some steps towards establishing public lectureships in the university. but he provided no permanent endowment for these chairs. his designs developed into a grander scheme. he determined to found a college which, in splendour and resources, should eclipse even the noble foundations of wykeham and waynflete, a college where the secular clergy should study the new learning and use it as a handmaid of theology and in the service of the old church. and as wykeham had established in connection with his college a school at winchester, so wolsey proposed to found at his birth-place, ipswich, and at oxford, two sister-seats of learning and religion. through the darkness and stagnation of the fifteenth century a few great men had handed on the torch of learning and of educational ideals. the pedigree of christ church is clearly traceable through magdalen and new college back to merton. wolsey at magdalen had learnt to appreciate, in the most beautiful of all the homes of learning, something of the aims of the great school-master bishop, waynflete. and waynflete himself, can we doubt? had caught from wykeham the enthusiasm for producing "rightly and nobly ordered minds and characters." at oxford, at winchester and at windsor he had lived under the shadow of the great monuments of wykeham's genius, and learned to discern "the true nature of the beautiful and graceful, the simplicity of beauty in style, harmony and grace." so that in the architecture of his college--and architecture, as plato tells us, as all the other arts, is full of grace and harmony, which are the two sisters of goodness and virtue--he was enabled to fulfil the platonic ideal and to provide the youth whom he desired to benefit with a home where they might dwell "in a land of health and fair sights and sounds, and receive the good in everything, and where beauty, the effluence of fair works, might flow into the eye and ear like a health-giving breeze from a purer region, and insensibly draw the soul from earliest years into likeness and sympathy with the beauty of reason." inspired by such examples, wolsey set himself to build a college which should eclipse them, "though unfinished, yet so famous, so excellent in art and yet so rising, that christendom shall ever speak his virtue." indeed, says fuller, nothing mean could enter into this man's mind. immense as were his private resources, they could not bear the strain of his magnificent plans. he therefore seized upon the idea of appropriating the property of the regular clergy and applying it to the foundation and endowment of cardinal's college. the time was ripe for some such conversion. monasticism was outworn. whatever the merits of some few monasteries might be, whatever the piety of an occasional abbot samson, or the popularity of a monkish institution which did its duty of charity and instruction in this or that part of the country, the monks as a rule had ceased to live up to their original standard. they had accumulated wealth and lost their hold on the people. and where they were popular, it was in many cases with the people they had pauperised. to a statesman with so keen an insight and so broad a mind as wolsey, it must have seemed both wise and safe to take this opportunity of suppressing some of the english priories. had not chicheley, when the alien priories had been suppressed on political grounds, secured some of their lands for the endowment of his foundation, all souls' college? his first step was to obtain a bull from the pope and the assent of the king, authorising him ( ) to suppress the priory of s. frideswide and transfer the canons to other houses of the augustinian order. their house and revenues, amounting to nearly £ , were assigned to the proposed college of secular clerks. the scale of that college is indicated by the fact that it was to consist of a dean and sixty canons, forty canons of inferior rank, besides thirteen chaplains, twelve lay clerks, sixteen choristers and a teacher of music, for the service of the church. six public professors were to be appointed in connection with the college. a few months later another bull, which premised that divine service could not be properly maintained in monasteries which contained less than seven professed members, empowered wolsey to suppress any number of such small religious houses all over the country. this he proceeded to do, and to transfer the inmates to other monasteries. their revenues, to an amount not exceeding golden ducats, were to be devoted to the new college. the plan of thus concentrating the resources of the small and scattered religious houses was both economical and statesmanlike. but, in its execution, it gave rise to fear and irritation, of which wolsey's political enemies were quick to avail themselves. the perturbation of the monks is well expressed in fuller's happy metaphor: "his proceedings made all the forest of religious foundations in england to shake, justly fearing the king would finish to fell the oaks, seeing the cardinal began to cut the underwood." wolsey found it necessary to write to his royal master more than once to contradict the mis-representations of his opponents. the king had been informed that monks and abbots had been turned out to starve. wolsey declared that what he had done was "to the full satisfaction, recompense and joyous contentation" of all concerned. the king complained that some of the monasteries would not contribute to his necessities as much as they had contributed to the cardinal's scheme. wolsey replied that he had indeed received "from divers mine old lovers and friends right loving and favourable aids towards the edifying of my said college," but added that these had been justly obtained and exaggerated in amount. but he promised in future to take nothing from any religious person. meantime he had set about building cardinal's college with extraordinary energy and on an enormous scale. the foundation stone was laid on th july . whilst the chapter-house and refectory of the old monastery were kept, the western bays of the church were removed to make way for the great quadrangle. the chapel of s. michael at south gate was demolished, and part of the old town wall was thrown down. room was thus made for the buildings on the south side of the quadrangle. these, the first portion of the college to be finished, were the kitchen and that hall which, in its practical and stately magnificence, can scarcely be equalled in england or surpassed in europe. but the fact that it was the kitchen and dining-room which first reached completion gave an opportunity to the wits. "egregium opus. cardinalis iste instituit collegium, et absolvit popinam." so runs one epigram, which being freely translated is: "the mountains were in labour once, and forth there came a mouse;-- your cardinal a college planned, and built an eating-house!" it was part of wolsey's design to gather into his college all the rising intellect of europe. in pursuance of this plan, he induced certain scholars from cambridge to migrate thither. but they it was, so men afterwards complained, who first introduced the taint of heresy into oxford. for at first the university was as strictly orthodox as her powerful patron, who hated "the hellish lutherans," could wish. when martin luther ( ) nailed his ninety-five theses on the church door of wittenberg, in protest against what erasmus had called "the crime of false pardons," the [illustration: cloisters, christ church] sale of indulgences, his protest found no echo here. on the contrary, the masters in convocation gladly elected three representative theologians who attended wolsey's conference in london, and condemned the noxious doctrines of the german reformer. a committee of theologians was also held at oxford, and their condemnation of luther's teaching won the warm approval of the university. but the leaven of lutheranism had already been introduced. the cambridge students whom wolsey had brought to be canons of cardinal college, began to hold secret meetings and to disseminate lutheran treatises. they made proselytes; they grew bolder, and nailed upon the church doors at nights some famous "libels and bills." archbishop warham presently found himself obliged to take notice of the growing sect. he wrote to wolsey invoking his aid, "that the captains of the said erroneous doctrines be punished to the fearful example of all other. one or two cankered members," he explains, "have induced no small number of young and incircumspect fools to give ear unto them," and he proposes that the cardinal should give "in commission to some sad father which was brought up in the university to sit and examine them." active measures were now taken to stamp out the heresy in oxford. wolsey ordered the arrest of a certain thomas garret of magdalen, a pernicious heretic who had been busy selling tyndale's bible and the german reformer's treatises, not only to oxford students, but even to the abbot of reading. his friends managed to get him safely out of oxford, but for some reason or other he returned after three days. the same night he was arrested in bed in the house of one radley, a singing-man, where it was well known that the little lutheran community was wont to meet. garret was not detained in bocardo, but in a cellar underneath the lodgings of the commissary, dr cottisford, rector of lincoln. whilst the commissary was at evensong he managed to escape, and made his way to the rooms of anthony dalaber, one of the "brotherhood," at gloucester college. dalaber has left an account--it is a most tearful tale--of the events which ensued. he had previously had some share in getting garret away from oxford, and was greatly surprised to see him back. he provided him with a coat in place of his tell-tale gown and hood, and sent him off with tears and prayers to wales, whence he hoped to escape to germany. after reading the tenth chapter of s. matthew's gospel with many a deep sigh and salt tear, dalaber went to cardinal college to give master clarke, a leading brother, notice of what had occurred. on his way he met william eden, a fellow of magdalen, who with a pitiful countenance explained to him that they were all undone. dalaber was able to give him the joyful news of garret's escape, and proceeded to s. frideswide's. "evensong," he says, "was begun, and the dean and the other canons were there in their grey amices; they were almost at magnificat before i came thither. i stood at the choir door and heard master taverner play, and others of the chapel there sing, with and among whom i myself was wont to sing also. but now my singing and music were turned into sighing and musing. as i thus and there stood, in cometh dr cottysford, as fast as ever he could go, bareheaded, as pale as ashes--i knew his grief well enough, and to the dean he goeth into the choir, where he was sitting in his stall, and talked with him very sorrowfully." dalaber describes the interview which followed, outside the choir, between these two and dr london, the warden of new college, "puffing, blustering and blowing, like a hungry and greedy lion seeking his prey." the commissary was so much blamed, that he wept for sorrow. spies were sent out in every direction; and when dalaber returned to his rooms next morning, he found that they had been thoroughly searched. he had spent the night with the "brethren," supping at corpus ("at which supper we were not very merry"), sleeping at s. alban hall, consulting together and praying for the wisdom of the serpent, and the harmlessness of the dove. this request would appear to have been in some measure vouchsafed to him, for, when he was interrogated by the prior as to his own movements and those of garret, he was enabled to furnish forth a tale full of circumstantial detail but wholly untrue. "this tale," he observes, "i thought meetest, but it was nothing so." although it were nothing so, he repeated his convincing narrative on oath, when he was examined at lincoln college by cottisford, higdon (dean of cardinal's college) and london. he had sworn on a great mass book laid before him to answer truly, but, as he complacently observes, "in my heart nothing so meant to do." nor, perhaps, did he mean to betray twenty-two of his associates, and the storehouse of garret's books, when examined by dr london, whom he calls the "rankest, papistical pharisee of them all"--at any rate he omits to mention the fact in his narrative. of garret himself, however, no trace could be found; and the commissary, being "in extreme pensyfness," consulted an astrologer, who made a figure for him, and told him, with all the cheerful certainty of an eastern astrologer in these days, that garret, having fled south-eastward in a tawny coat, was at that time in london, on his way to the sea-side. consulting the stars was strictly forbidden by the catholic church, but the warden of new college, though a doctor of divinity, was not ashamed to inform the bishop of the astrologer's saying, or afraid to ask him to inform the cardinal, archbishop of york, concerning it. luckily for him the commissary did not rely wholly on the information either of dalaber or the astrologer. the more practical method of watching the seaport towns resulted a few days later in garret's recapture near bristol. many of the oxford brotherhood were also imprisoned and excommunicated. garret, who had written a piteous letter to wolsey, praying for release, not from the iron bonds which he said he justly deserved, but from the more terrible bonds of excommunication, and who had also made a formal recantation of all his heresies, was allowed to escape. but first he took part in a procession, in which most of the other prisoners also appeared, carrying faggots from s. mary's church to s. frideswide's, and on the way casting into a bonfire made at carfax for the purpose certain books which had most likely formed part of garret's stock. at least three of the prisoners, however, died in prison without having been readmitted to communion, either from the sweating sickness then raging, or, as foxe asserts, from the hardships they endured. for they were kept, he says, for nearly six months in a deep cave under the ground, on a diet of salt fish. by higdon's orders they did at least receive a christian burial. the heretics were crushed in oxford, but elsewhere the movement grew apace. the printing press scattered wide-cast books and pamphlets which openly attacked the corruption of the church and the monastic orders. henry determined to proscribe all books that savoured of heresy. a joint committee of oxford and cambridge theologians was summoned to meet in london. they examined and condemned the suspected books which were submitted to them. the publication of english treatises upon holy scripture without ecclesiastical sanction was forbidden by royal proclamation. versions of the bible in the vulgar tongue were at the same time proscribed. yet this orthodox king, to whom as "defender of the faith," leo x. had sent a sword still preserved in the ashmolean, was on the brink of a breach with rome. for henry, with his curious mania for matrimony, had determined to marry anne boleyn, but he failed to obtain from the papal legates in england a decree for the dissolution of his marriage. it was a failure fraught with enormous consequences. the fortunes of oxford were involved in it. the king gladly availed himself of the suggestion of a cambridge scholar, thomas cranmer, that the universities should be called on for their judgment. they were thus placed in a position analogous to that of an oecumenical council with power to control a pontifical decree. for the pope's predecessor had granted a dispensation for henry's marriage with catherine, his brother's wife. every learned man in europe, but for bribery or threats, would have condemned henry's cause on its merits. but it was evident that the question would not be decided on its merits. from a packed commission at cambridge a decision favourable to a divorce was with difficulty extorted; but even so it was qualified by an important reservation. the marriage was declared illegal, if it could be proved that catherine's marriage with prince arthur had been consummated. cambridge was praised by the king for her "wisdom and good conveyance." yet that reservation, if the testimony of the queen herself was to go for anything, amounted to a conclusion against the divorce. it was not expected that a favourable verdict would be obtained so easily from oxford. at the end of his first letter, in which the king called upon the university to declare their minds "sincerely and truly without any abuse," a very plain threat is added, which left no doubt as to the royal view of what could be considered "sincere and true": "and in case ye do not uprightly according to divine learning handle yourselves herein, ye may be assured that we, not without great cause, shall so quickly and sharply look to your unnatural misdemeanour therein that it shall not be to your quietness and ease hereafter." it was proposed that the question should be referred to a packed committee. but the masters of arts refused to entrust the matter wholly to the faculty of theology. they claimed to nominate a certain number of delegates. their attitude provoked sharp reproval and further threats from the imperious monarch. the youths of the university were warned not to play masters, or they would soon learn that "it is not good to stir up a hornets' nest." persuasion was used by the archbishop and the bishop of lincoln. the example of paris and cambridge was quoted. the aid of dr foxe, who had proved his skill by obtaining the decree at cambridge, was called in. learned arguments were provided by nicholas de burgo, an italian friar. but there was no doubt about the popular feeling on the question. pieces of hemp and rough drawings of gallows were affixed to the gate of the bishop's lodging; both he and father nicholas were pelted with stones in the open street; the women of oxford supported catherine with such vehemence, that thirty of them had to be shut up in bocardo. the king had dispatched two of his courtiers to oxford: the duke of suffolk and sir william fitzwilliam. the former imprisoned the women; the latter distributed money to the more venal of the graduates. "no indifferency was used in the whole matter." threats and bribes at last prevailed. a committee carefully packed was appointed with power to decide in the name of the university. a verdict was obtained which corresponded to the cambridge decree. the important reservation, "if the marriage had been consummated," was added to the decision that marriage with the widow of a deceased brother was contrary to the divine and human law. cranmer, who had succeeded warham as archbishop of canterbury, pronounced the king's marriage with catherine null and void. in the following year the university was asked to concur in the foregone decision in favour of separation from rome. the authority of the pope in england was abolished, and the monasteries were rendered liable to visitation by commission under the great seal. the act of supremacy followed. bishop fisher and sir thomas more were executed for denying the royal supremacy, and thomas cromwell was appointed vicar-general of england. his failure to procure a decree invalidating henry's marriage meant the downfall of wolsey. his downfall involved the fortunes of his college. it was rumoured at once that the buildings were to be demolished, because they bore at every prominent point escutcheons carved with the arms of the proud cardinal. wolsey had "gathered into his college whatsoever excellent thing there was in the whole realm." the rich vestments and ornaments with which he had furnished s. frideswide's church were quickly "disposed" by the king. the disposal of this and other property, lands, offices, plate and tapestries forfeited under the statute of praemunire, and carefully catalogued for his royal master by the fallen minister, had obvious pecuniary advantages. and as in london, york place, the palace which the cardinal had occupied and rebuilt as archbishop of york, was confiscated and its name changed to whitehall; so, when "bluff harry broke into the spence," he converted cardinal's college into "king henry viii.'s college at oxford" consisting of a dean and twelve canons only ( ). henry had been besought to be gracious to the college; but he replied that it deserved no favour at his hands, for most of its members had opposed his wishes in the matter of the divorce. the prospect of the dissolution of his college at oxford, foreshadowed by that of his great foundation at ipswich, caused wolsey infinite sorrow. to thomas cromwell he wrote that he could not sleep for the thought of it, and could not write unto him for weeping and sorrow. he appealed with all the passion of despair to the king and those in power, that the "sharpness and rigour of the law should not be visited upon these poor innocents." in response to a petition from the whole college, henry replied that he would not dissolve it entirely. he intended, he said, to have an honourable college there, "but not so great or of such magnificence as my lord cardinal intended to have, for it is not thought meet for the common weal of our realm. yet we will have a college honourably to maintain the service of god and literature." the purely ecclesiastical foundation of was not calculated to maintain the service of literature. it was surrendered twelve years afterwards to the king, whose commissioners received on the same day the surrender of the cathedral church of christ and the blessed virgin mary at osney, the new cathedral body formed at the ancient abbey upon the creation of the see and diocese of oxford ( ). the way was thus cleared for the final arrangement by which ( th november ) the episcopal see was transferred from osney and united with the collegiate corporation under the title it bears to-day, ecclesia christi cathedralis oxon; ex fundatione regis henrici octavi. thus s. frideswide's church became the cathedral church of christ in oxford, and also the chapel of the college now at last called christ church. the foundation now consisted of a dean, eight canons, eight chaplains, sixty scholars and forty children, besides an organist, singing men, servants and almsmen. it was still, then, a foundation of extraordinary magnificence. yet there were not wanting "greedy wretches to gape after the lands belonging to the colleges." they urged henry to treat them as he had treated the monasteries. but the king refused. "ah, sirrah," he replied to one, "i perceive the abbey lands have fleshed you, and set your teeth on edge, to ask also those colleges. and wheras we had a regard only to pull down sin by defacing the monasteries, you have a desire also to overthrow all goodness by subversion of colleges. i tell you, sirs, that i judge no land in england better bestowed than that which is given to our universities; for by their maintenance our realm shall be well governed when we be dead and rotten.... i love not learning so ill that i will impair the revenues of any one house by a penny, wherby it may be upholden." henry, in fact, may be credited with a genuine desire for the promotion of learning. he had, besides, no reason to quarrel with the university. it had proved subservient to his will; the colleges were nurseries of the secular clergy, who adopted the new order of things. they could not be regarded like the monks, as mercenaries of a foreign and hostile power. but academic enthusiasm was not to be promoted by the despotic methods of henry. the arbitrary restrictions of the six articles, "that sure touchstone of a man's conscience," struck at the root of intellectual liberty. the revival of academic life which had resulted from the stimulus of the catholic renaissance, was suddenly and severely checked by the early developments of the reformation. the monasteries had been dissolved, and the poor students whom they had supported trudged a-begging. another outbreak of plague helped to increase the depopulation of the university. the town suffered severely from both causes. the halls and hostels stood empty; very few degrees were taken. religious controversy usurped the place of education. the university became a centre of politics and ecclesiasticism. the schools were deserted or occupied by laundresses; and, whilst commissioners were busy applying tests, expelling honest fellows, destroying mss. and smashing organs, men began to discover that, through the invention of printing, it had become possible for them to educate themselves. they no longer needed to go to a monastery or college library to obtain a book; teaching needed no longer to be merely oral. the multiplication of books decentralised learning. with the monopoly of manuscripts and the universality of latin were taken almost at a moment's notice two of the chief assets of mediæval universities. a man might now read what he liked, and where he liked, instead of being obliged to listen to a master in the schools teaching set subjects that did not interest him. and no "test" was required of the independent reader. no wonder that, as one preacher dismally exclaimed, the wells of learning, oxford and cambridge, were dried up. the king had taken the charters of both university and town into his own hands in . he did not restore them till . two years later parliament made over all colleges and chantries to the king, "who gave them very good counsel." meanwhile, in , a visitation of the university had been held. dr london and richard layton were the chief visitors. their object was to establish ecclesiastical conformity, to supplant the old scholastic teaching and to promote classical learning. they confirmed the public lectures in greek and latin which they found, and established others, at magdalen, new college, and c.c.c., and they settled other lectures of the kind at merton and queen's. the other colleges, they found, could not afford to have such lectures, and accordingly they directed the students of these to attend the courses at the others daily. the study of aristotle and the holy scriptures was enjoined, and the king founded regius professorships in divinity, hebrew, greek, medicine and civil law. the university meantime was rewarded for its compliance by being exempted from the payment of tithes. at the same time the professors of the old learning were ousted from the academic chairs. duns scotus was dragged from his pedestal with an ignominy which recalled the fate of sejanus. "we have set duns in bocardo," wrote layton, "and have utterly banished him oxford for ever with all his blind glosses.... the second time we came to new college, after we had declared your injunctions we found all the great quadrant court full of the leaves of dunse, the wind blowing them into every corner. and there we found one mr. greenfield, a gentleman of buckinghamshire gathering up part of the same book leaves, as he said, to make him sewells or blawnshers to keep the deer within his wood, therby to have the better cry with his hounds." that day the downfall of scholasticism in england was at last complete. during the minority of edward vi. "there was great expectation in the university what religion would be professed." it was soon evident which way the wind was to blow. young men began to "protest" in magdalen chapel. in the protector somerset and cranmer determined to reform the university in the interests of the new anglican church. theologians were invited from the continent, and in default of melancthon, peter martyr arrived and lectured in the divinity schools on the epistles of s. paul and the eucharist. his teaching roused protest from the roman catholics, and polemical divinity, if no other study, flourished for a while in oxford. but a commission was now appointed with large powers, which proceeded to draw up a code of statutes calculated to eliminate all popery from the constitution of the university. these "edwardine statutes," as they were called, remained nominally in force till the "laudian" statutes replaced them. the commissioners dealt severely with the colleges. many of the fellows who had opposed the reformation fled forthwith; others they ejected and replaced by rigid calvinists. "all things," the roman catholics thought, "were turned topsy turvy." the disciplinary injunctions and acts of the commissioners were wholly admirable. unfortunately their fanaticism in other directions was of the deplorably iconoclastic sort. the ancient libraries were rifled; many mss., guilty of no other superstition than red letters in their titles, were condemned to the fire. "treatises on scholastical divinity were let loose from their chains and given away or sold to mechanics for servile uses, whilst those wherein angles or mathematical diagrams appeared were destroyed because accounted popish or diabolical or both." the works of the schoolmen were carried about the city "by certain rude young men" on biers and finally burnt in the market-place, a proceeding which they styled the funeral of scotus and scotists. some of the books from monasteries were sold at this time to grocers and soapsellers, and some by shiploads to bookbinders abroad, "to the wondering of foreign nations," says bale. from wall and window, the order had gone forth giving sanction to the popular movement, every picture, every image commemorating saint or prophet or apostle was to be extirpated. painted glass, as at new college, survives to show that the order was imperfectly obeyed. but everywhere the statues crashed from their niches, rood and rood-loft were laid low and the sun-light stared in white and stainless on the whitened aisles. at magdalen the high altar and various images and paintings were destroyed, the organ burnt and the vestments sold. at christ church the dean and chapter decided that all altars, statues, images, tabernacles, missals and other matters of superstition and idolatry should be removed out of the cathedral; and the other colleges and churches followed this example. the magnificent reredos in the chapel of all souls', of which the present work is a conjectural restoration, was smashed; most of the stained glass there was broken, and the altars were removed together with "the thing they call an organ." the edwardine commissioners proposed to abolish the grammar schools founded in connection with the colleges. the city, however, immediately petitioned the king on behalf of the schools: "where your poor orators have always had received and enjoyed by the means of your colleges founded by your grace's most noble progenitor's singular treasure, help & commodity for the education of their sons, and especially the more part of us being not otherwise able to bring up our children in good learning and to find them at grammar.... there be in danger to be cast out of some college thirty, some other forty or fifty, some other more or fewer, & the most part of them children of your poor orators, having of the said college meat, drink, cloth & lodging & were verie well brought up in learning in the common grammar scoole at the college of s. marie magdalen, & so went forward & attained to logicke & other faculties at the charges of the said college & likewise of other houses and little or nothing at the charge of their parents, after their admission into any of the said colleges, wh. thing hath always heretofore been a great succour unto your said poor orators." the petition was successful, though some schools were suppressed. magdalen college school, thus preserved, was intended by the [illustration: the grammar hall magdalen college] founder to be to magdalen what winchester was to new college. it had been housed in his life-time in a building ( ), a picturesque fragment of which yet remains, in what is known as the grammar hall. the grammar school buildings stood outside the west gate of the college, on the ground between the modern s. swithun's buildings and the present "grammar hall," which belonged in part to this school building and in part (including the south portion and the little bell-tower) to other buildings that were added to it ( ). all these buildings, save the fragment that remains to be used as undergraduates' rooms, were removed in together with the houses that faced the gravel walk between them and long wall. the present school-room, facing the high, was erected shortly afterwards (buckler), in the perpendicular style, and recently ( ), across the bridge, on the site once occupied by turrel's hall, a handsome house for the master and fifty boarders has been built (sir arthur blomfield). at the same time the ground by the river below the bridge was converted into gardens and a cricket ground for the choristers and schoolboys, a conversion which has greatly improved the aspect of the bridge. chapter vii the oxford martyrs the sufferings of the protestants had failed to teach them the value of religious liberty. the use of the new liturgy was enforced by imprisonment, and the subscription to the articles of faith was demanded by royal authority from all the clergy and schoolmasters. the excesses of the protestants led to a temporary but violent reaction. the married priests were driven from their churches; the images were replaced, the new prayer book was set aside, the mass restored. ridley and the others who had displaced the deposed bishops were expelled; latimer and cranmer were sent to the tower. after the failure of wyatt's rebellion and the defeat of the protestants, mary set herself to enforce the submission of england to the pope. with the restoration of the system of henry viii. the country was satisfied. but mary was not content to stop there. the statutes against heretics were revived. the bigotry of mary knew no restraint. she ferreted out protestants all over the country, and for three and a half years england experienced a persecution which was insignificant if judged by continental standards, but which has left an indelible impression on the minds of men. nearly three hundred protestants were burnt at the stake, and among them latimer, ridley and cranmer--all cambridge men--at oxford. the accession of mary had caused much dismay in the hearts of the protestants in that city. the queen's proclamation as to religion on th august , was followed two days after by letters to the chancellors of oxford and cambridge enjoining the full observance of the ancient statutes. a special letter from the queen was sent to magdalen annulling the ordinances made contrary to the statutes since the death of henry viii. prudent protestants who had made themselves prominent in their colleges now wisely took leave of absence from oxford. peter martyr left the country; and his place was soon afterwards taken by a spanish friar from the court of philip and mary. commissioners arrived, and were shocked to find that at magdalen, for example, there was no priest to say mass, and no fellow who would hear it; there was no boy to respond, no altar and no vestments. visitors were sent by stephen gardiner to new college, magdalen and c.c.c. many fellows were ejected, and mass was restored. the work of death had now begun. thomas cranmer, archbishop of canterbury, nicholas ridley, bishop of london, and hugh latimer, bishop of worcester, were removed from the tower in march and placed in the custody of the mayor and bailiffs of oxford. for preparations had been made to examine them before a commission appointed from both the universities. they were lodged at first in bocardo, the town prison, now become, as ridley observed, "a very college of quondams." shortly afterwards ridley was removed to the house of an alderman, and latimer elsewhere, in order that they might not confer together. presently "a solemn convocation was held in s. mary's chancel concerning the business forthwith to be taken in hand; which being concluded all the doctors and masters went in a solemn procession to carfax and thence to christ church, where they heard divine service, and so they went to dinner;[ ] afterwards they with some others, in number thirty-three, that were to dispute with the bishops, met in our lady's chapel on the north side of s. mary's church, and thence going into the chancel, placed themselves in a semi-circle by the high altar." to support the platform where they sat the finials of the stalls are said to have been then levelled. "soon after was brought in cranmer (with a great number of rusty billmen), then ridley, and last of all latimer, to subscribe to certain articles then proposed. they all denied them." on monday, the th april, the vice-chancellor and proctors met at exeter college and thence went to the divinity school, there to dispute with the bishops on the nature of the eucharist. the oxford and cambridge doctors took their places, and the moderator of the schools presided in his lofty chair. cranmer was brought in and set opposite to the latter in the respondent's place. by his side was the mayor of the city, in whose charge he was. next day it was ridley's turn, and on the third latimer's. so the solemn farce of the disputations, punctuated by "opprobrious checks and reviling taunts," was gone through; the bishops were pronounced no members of the church, cranmer was returned to bocardo, ridley taken to the sheriff's house and latimer to the bailiff's. the judicial sentence followed the academical judgment. in september a commission was sent down from london, and sat in the divinity school. the two bishops had looked death steadily in the face for two years, expecting it every day or hour. it was now come. ridley was urged to recant, but this he firmly refused to do or to acknowledge by word or gesture "the usurped supremacy of rome." his cap, which he refused to remove at the mention of the cardinals and the pope, was forcibly taken off by a beadle. latimer when examined was equally firm. he appeared "with a kerchief on his head and upon it a night cap or two and a great cap such as townsmen use, with two broad flaps to button under the chin, wearing an old threadbare bristol frieze gown, girded to his body with a penny leather girdle, at the which hanged by a long string of leather his testament and his spectacles without a case, depending about his neck upon his breast." bread was bread, the aged bishop boldly declared when asked for his views on transubstantiation, and wine was wine; there was a change in the sacrament it was true, but the change was not in the nature but the dignity. the two protestants were reprieved for the day and summoned to appear next morning at eight o'clock in s. mary's church. there, after further examination, the sentence of condemnation was pronounced upon them as heretics obstinate and incurable. and on th october the sentence was fulfilled. ridley and latimer were led out to be burnt, whilst cranmer, whose execution had been delayed, since it required the sanction of rome, remained in bocardo, and ascending to the top of the prison house, or, as an old print represents it, to the top of s. michael's tower, kneeled down and prayed to god to strengthen them. on the evening of the th there had been a supper at the house of irish, the mayor, whose wife was a bigoted and fanatical catholic. ridley, as we have seen, was in their charge, and the members of his family were permitted to be present. he talked cheerfully of his approaching "marriage"; his brother-in-law promised to be in attendance and, if possible, to bring with him his wife, ridley's sister. even the hard eyes of mrs irish softened to tears as she listened and thought of what was coming. the brother-in-law offered to sit up through the night, but ridley said there was no occasion; he "minded to go to bed and sleep as quietly as ever he did in his life." in the morning he wrote a letter to the queen. as bishop of london he had granted renewals of certain leases on which he had received fines. bonnor had refused to recognise them; and he entreated the queen, for christ's sake, either that the leases should be allowed, or that some portion of his own confiscated property might be applied to the repayment of the tenants. the letter was long; by the time it was finished the sheriff's officers were probably in readiness. bocardo, the prison over the north gate, spanned the road from the ancient tower of s. michael's, and commanded the approach to broad street. thither, to a place over against balliol college, "those special and singular captains and principal pillars of christ's church" were now led. the frontage of balliol was then much further back than it is now; beyond it lay open country, before it, under the town wall, ran the water of the tower-ditch. some years ago a stake with ashes round it was found on the site which is marked by a metal cross in the roadway, at the foot of the first electric lamp, as the site of the martyrs' death.[ ] to this spot then came the two bishops. lord williams of thame was on the spot by the queen's order; and the city guard was under arms to prevent disturbance. ridley appeared first. he wore "a fair black gown furred and faced with foins, such as he was wont to wear being bishop, and a tippet of velvet furs likewise about his neck, a velvet nightcap upon his head and a corner cap upon the same, going in a pair of slippers to the stake." he walked between the mayor and aldermen, and master latimer followed him in the same shabby attire as that which he had worn on the occasion of his examination. as they passed towards bocardo they looked up in the hope of seeing cranmer at the little glass window. it was from this window[ ] that the bocardo [illustration: south view of bocardo herbert railton] prisoners used to let down an old hat and cry, "pity the bocardo birds." for prisoners in those days depended for their daily sustenance on the charity of strangers, even as the prisoners in portugal or morocco do to-day, and "bread and meat for the prisoners" was a well-known cry in the london streets. the parisian version was, "aux prisonniers du palais." cranmer's attention at this moment was engrossed by a spanish friar, who was busy improving the occasion, and the martyr could not see him. but ridley spied latimer hobbling after him. "oh, be ye there?" he exclaimed. "yea," answered the old man. "have after as fast as i can follow!" when he reached the stake ridley ran to latimer, "and with a wondrous cheerful look embraced and kissed him" and comforted him, saying, "be of good heart, brother, for god will either assuage the fury of the flame, or else strengthen us to abide it." with that he went to the stake, kneeled down by it, kissed it and effectually prayed, and behind him master latimer kneeled, as earnestly calling upon god as he. the martyrs had now to listen to a sermon from dr smith, who denounced them as heretics, and exhorted them to recant. the lord williams of thame, the vice-chancellor and other commissioners sat upon a form close at hand. the martyrs asked leave of them to reply, but the bailiffs and the vice-chancellor ran up to ridley and stopped his mouth with their hands. the martyrs now commended their souls and their cause to god, and stripped themselves for the stake, ridley giving away to the eager crowd his garments, dials, napkins and nutmegs, whilst some plucked the points off his hose; "happy was he that might get any rag of him." they were chained to the stakes, and gunpowder was hung about their necks, thanks to the humane care of ridley's brother-in-law. then men brought a faggot kindled with fire, and laid the same down at dr ridley's feet, to whom master latimer spake in this manner: 'be of good comfort, master ridley, and play the man. we shall this day light such a candle, by god's grace, in england, as i trust shall never be put out.' then latimer crying aloud, "o father of heaven, receive my soul," bathed his hands in the flame that blazed up about him, and stroked his face. the powder exploded, and he "soon died with very little pain or none." ridley was less fortunate, for the fire being lit beneath and the faggots heaped above, the flames burnt his legs slowly away, and did not ignite the gunpowder round his neck. amid cries to heaven of "lord, lord, receive my soul," and "lord have mercy upon me," he screamed in his agony to the bystanders to let the fire come unto him. his brother-in-law with awkward kindness threw on more wood, which only kept down the flame. it was not till the lower part of his body had been burned away that he fell over, "and when the flame touched the gunpowder he was seen to stir no more." the lot of cranmer was still more pathetic, and made a yet deeper impression upon the popular mind. he, like the others, had been examined in s. mary's ( th september ). he had appeared, clad in a fair black gown with his hood on his shoulders, such as doctors of divinity used to wear, and in his hand was a white staff. the aged archbishop confronted there the pope's legate, who sat on a raised dais ten feet high, with cloth of state, very richly and sumptuously adorned, at the east end of the church. summoned to answer to a charge of blasphemy, incontinency and heresy, he refused as firmly as the others to recognise the authority of the bishop of rome within this kingdom. "i protest," he said, "i am no traitor. i have made an oath to the king and i must obey the king by god's law. by the scripture the king is chief and no foreign person in his own realm above him. the pope is contrary to the crown. i cannot obey both, for no man can serve two masters at once. you attribute the keys to the pope and the sword to the king. i say the king hath both." before further proceedings were taken against the archbishop, it was necessary to obtain sanction of the pope. it was not till the middle of the following february that the papal breve arrived and a new commission came down to oxford. sitting before the high altar in the choir of christ church, thirlby and bonnor announced that cranmer had been tried at rome, where, according to the preamble of the papal sentence, he had been allowed every opportunity to answer for himself. "o lord!" commented cranmer, "what lies be these!" they were directed, the commissioners continued, to degrade him, excommunicate him and deliver him up to the secular power. the form of degradation was begun when cranmer appealed to the next free general council. the appeal was refused; the degradation was continued. cranmer was stripped of his vestments, his hair was shorn, the sacred unction scraped from his finger-tips, and he was then dressed in a poor yeoman-beadle's gown, full bare and nearly worn, and handed over to the secular power. "now are you lord no longer!" cried bonnor when the ceremony was finished. "all this needed not," the archbishop replied; "i myself had done with this gear long ago." cranmer had been three years in prison; he was an old man, and his nerve may well have been upset by the prolonged delay and fear of death and the recent degradation which he had undergone. there is no authentic account of what happened to him during the next few hours. but protestant tradition relates that he was taken from the cathedral to the deanery of christ church, where he was entertained at his ease and exposed to the arguments and exhortations of soto, the spanish friar. he was warned at the same time that the queen's mind was so set, that she would either have cranmer a catholic or else no cranmer at all. he was taken back to his cell that night, and there his constancy at last gave way. he signed a series of recantations. but the queen refused to relent; she had humiliated her enemy, and now he must die. she fixed the th of march for the day of his execution. but first he was called upon to make a public confession of his recantation. it was a foul and rainy day when he was brought out of bocardo to s. mary's church. peers, knights, doctors, students, priests, men-at-arms and citizens thronged the narrow aisles, and through their midst passed the mayor and next the aldermen in their place and degree; after them came cranmer between two spanish friars, who, on entering the church, chanted the _nunc dimittis_. a stage was set over against the pulpit--the ledge cut for it may still be seen in the pillar to the left of the vice-chancellor's chair--and here cranmer was made to stand in his bare and ragged gown, and old square cap, whilst dr cole, the warden of new college, preached his funeral sermon, and justified the sentence that had been passed, by which, even though he had recanted, he was condemned to die. cole gave this reason and that, and added that there were others which had moved the queen and council "which were not meet and convenient for every one to understand." he congratulated the archbishop on his conversion, and promised him that a dirge should be sung for him in every church in oxford. finally, he called upon the whole congregation to kneel where they were and to pray for him. when the prayer was finished the preacher called upon the archbishop to make the public confession of his faith. "brethren," cried he, "lest any man should doubt of this man's earnest conversion and repentance, you shall hear him speak before you." but the spirit of revenge had overreached itself. cranmer's enemies had hoped to humiliate him to the uttermost; instead, they gave him the opportunity of redeeming his fame and adding his name to the roll of martyrs. "the tongues of dying men enforce attention, like deep harmony.... more are men's ends marked than their lives before." to the astonishment of friends and foes alike, cranmer stood up before the congregation, and chanted the palinode of his forsworn opinions; he recanted his recantation. face to face with that cruel [illustration: the president's lodge trinity college] death, which in his weakness he had so desperately striven to avoid, he made the declaration of his true belief. "and now i come," he concluded, "to the great thing which so much troubleth my conscience, more than anything that ever i did or said in my whole life, and that is the setting abroad of a writing contrary to the truth; which now here i renounce and refuse as things written with my hand, contrary to the truth which i thought in my heart, and written for fear of death, and to save my life if it might be;... and forasmuch as my hand offended, writing contrary to my heart, my hand shall first be punished therefore; for, may i come to the fire, it shall be first burned. as for the pope i utterly refuse him, as christ's enemy and anti-christ, with all his false doctrine; and as for the sacrament, i believe as i have taught in my book against the bishop of winchester." so far he was allowed to proceed before, amidst the infuriated cries of his enemies, he was pulled down from the stage and borne away to the stake. "priests who did rue to see him go so wickedly to his death, ran after him exhorting him, while time was, to remember himself." but cranmer had remembered himself at last. he had done with recantations at the bidding of spanish priests and "bloody" bonnor. he approached the stake with a cheerful countenance, we are told, undressed in haste and stood upright in his shirt. the spanish friars finding they could do nothing with him, exclaimed the one to the other, "let us go from him, for the devil is in him." "make short," cried lord williams, and "recant, recant," cried others. the wood was kindled. "this was the hand that wrote it," cranmer said, extending his right arm, "therefore it shall suffer first punishment." he held his hand so steadfast and immovable in the flame that all men might see it burned before his body was touched. and so holding it he never stirred nor cried till the fire reached him and he was dead. a portrait of cranmer hangs in the bodleian. but the chief monument to the protestant martyrs was raised in . the martyrs' memorial in s. giles', opposite the west front of balliol college, was happily designed by sir gilbert scott in imitation of the beautiful crosses which edward i. raised in memory of queen eleanor. the statues of the martyrs are by weekes. the north aisle of the neighbouring church of s. mary magdalene was restored at the same time in memory of the same event. cranmer had atoned for his inconstancy, and crowned the martyrdoms of the english reformation. from that moment the cause of catholic reaction was hopeless. cranmer's career had not been that of a saint or a martyr. he was a weak man with a legal rather than a religious cast of mind. nothing in his life became him like the leaving of it. others more constant to their belief, and more noble in character, had died at the stake. but the very weakness of the man and the pathos of the humiliation of one so highly placed, appealed to the crowd who could not rise to heights of unshaken constancy. more easily understood by the people than the triumphant cry of heroic sufferers like latimer, the dramatic end of the archbishop filled every independent mind with sympathetic dread. in vain did mary heap rewards on the university. in vain did cardinal pole institute a fresh visitation, hunt all heretics from the university, burn in the common market-place all english bibles and protestant books that could be found. in vain did he revise the university and college statutes. his work was undone as soon as finished. the lesson of cranmer's death had gone home to a thousand hearts. england refused to be a province of spain and of rome. the news of mary's death was received in oxford with the ringing of bells and other signs of discreet delight. the catholic reaction is marked in oxford history by the institution of two colleges, trinity and s. john's, both founded on the sites of old monastic houses by wealthy citizens of london who were lovers of the old order and adherents of the old religion. in sir thomas pope, a faithful servant of the tudors, who had acquired large tracts of abbey lands in oxfordshire, bought the site and vacant buildings of durham college, which were then "mere dog-kennels," and the half of the grove which had not been included in the grant of s. bernard's college to christ church. here he founded the college of the holy and undivided trinity, consisting of a president, twelve fellows and eight scholars. and in drawing up his statutes he availed himself of the advice both of elizabeth and cardinal pole. the hall was completed in . in the decay of the old durham buildings made reconstruction imperative. wren was the architect. he wished to build a long range in the upper part of the grove, but the quadrangular form was preferred; and he designed the garden quadrangle, a block in the renaissance style which was spoilt by additions and alterations in . the chapel ( ), which boasts some magnificent carving by grinling gibbons, is, in style, closely akin to the advanced palladian of dean aldrich's church of all saints. he certainly made some suggestions for it, and so did wren. the president's house and new buildings, by t. g. jackson ( ), form, with the iron railings and old halls, including the old perilous or kettle hall ( ), that face "the broad," a new and handsome quadrangle. it was in , also, that sir thomas white, a rich merchant tailor who had twice been lord mayor of london, chose the site of the suppressed college of s. bernard for his foundation, being guided thereto, as tradition asserts, by a dream which warned him to build near a place where there was a triple elm having three trunks issuing from one root. between his college and the merchant taylors' school in london white established a connection similar to that between winchester and new college. the treasure of ecclesiastical vestments preserved in the library, and the fact that edmund campion, the jesuit poet and conspirator, after whom the new jesuit hall in oxford is called, was the fellow chosen to preach the founder's funeral sermon, indicate the roman catholic sympathies of the institution. yet it was an alumnus of this college, william laud, whose body was laid in the chapel ( ), and whose ghost, it is said, still haunts the library he built and the quadrangle which owes its completion ( ) to his munificence, who fixed the university in its sympathy with the high church party of the anglican church. the classical colonnades and the charming garden front, wherein inigo jones combined the oxford gothic with the style which he had recently learned to love in italy, form a fitting background to the most perfect of oxford gardens ( ). chapter viii elizabeth, bodley and laud the university had declined sadly under mary. affairs were not at first greatly improved when elizabeth ascended the throne. "two religions," says wood, "being now as it were on foot, divers of the chiefest of the university retired and absented themselves till they saw how affairs would proceed." it was not long, however, before queen elizabeth appointed a body of visitors to "make a mild and gentle, not rigorous reformation." the edwardine system was for the most part restored; the ejected fellows were brought back, whilst those who refused to comply with the new act of supremacy were expelled in their turn. of these the largest number were new college men. the loss of these scholars did not improve the state of learning at oxford. but in the earl of leicester became chancellor, and it is in some part due to him that order was restored and a regular course of studies once more established. queen elizabeth had been imprisoned at woodstock during her sister's reign, and some of the needlework which she did when she was there is preserved at the bodleian. the university had dispatched a deputation to her, with a present of gloves and a congratulatory address upon her accession; she now ( st august ) paid to oxford a long-promised visit. she was welcomed by a deputation from the university at godstow bridge and at bocardo by the civic authorities, who there yielded up to her the city mace, and presented her with a gilt cup and forty pounds of gold. a latin oration at the north gate and a greek oration at carfax were delivered. the queen thanked the orator in greek, and was then escorted to christ church. for three days disputations were held in the royal presence in s. mary's church. elizabeth was a good scholar, one remembers, taught by roger ascham, and she really seems to have enjoyed this learned function. on the last day, at any rate, so keen was the argument and the queen's interest in it, that the disputants "tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky," so that the lights had to be lit in the church. at the end of the disputations a latin oration was delivered in praise of the queen and her victories over the hosts of spain and the pope. "tuis auspiciis," the peroration ran, "hispania anglum non vidit nisi victorem, anglia hispanum nisi captivum." loud cries of "vivat regina" resounded through the church. elizabeth was pressed to reply. she pretended to hesitate, suggesting that the spanish ambassador, or leicester, or cecil should speak for her. the courtiers were wise enough to bow dissent. at length she rose, and her opening words contained a happy allusion to the growing darkness: "qui male agit odit lucem"; "dominus illuminatio mea," she might have added. some relaxation was provided for her majesty in the shape of latin and english plays which were acted in christ church hall "upon a large scaffold erected, set about with stately lights of wax variously wrought." the latin play was entitled "marcus geminus and progne"; the english play "palamon and arcite," written by mr richard edwards, and acted, we are told, with very great applause. "in the said play was acted a cry of hounds in the quadrant upon the train of a fox in the hunting of theseus, with which the young scholars who stood in the windows were so much taken, supposing it was real, that they cried out 'now, now. there, there. he's caught! he's caught!' all which the queen merrily beholding said 'o excellent! those boys in very troth are ready to leap out of the window, to follow the hounds.'" the play, indeed, was considered to surpass "damon and pythias," than which they thought nothing could be better. the acting of plays of this kind and in this manner at the universities as at the inns of law on occasions of high festivity throws considerable light on the development of the elizabethan drama. the university wits, as they were called, began at this period to lay the foundations of english fiction in their "tales"; the early english drama received its classical tone and form from them also. for john lyly, george peele, thomas lodge and others were oxford men. the bohemian extravagance of the life of the "university wits" in london will help us to understand why it was that henry savile, warden of merton ( ), the austere and accomplished scholar, could not abide wits. he preferred the plodding scholar, and used to say that if he wanted wits he would look for them in newgate. neither wits nor their plays, which were often scurrilous enough, were acceptable to the puritans, and within a few years both city and university began to restrict the performances of plays. queen elizabeth bade farewell to oxford on th september, and on that day the walls of s. mary's, all souls' and university were hung with innumerable copies of verses bemoaning her departure. by magdalen college she took leave of the civic authorities; the university officials attended her to shotover, and there, at the conclusion of a speech from the provost of oriel, "she gave him her hand to kiss, with many thanks to the whole university, speaking then these words, as 'tis reported, with her face towards oxford. 'farewell the worthy university of oxford; farewell my good subjects there; farewell my dear scholars and pray god prosper your studies. farewell. farewell.'" no wonder she won universal homage by "her sweet, affable and noble carriage." the name of robert dudley, earl of leicester, lover of elizabeth, is inseparably connected with oxford, not only by his chancellorship, but also by the fact that it is here that his ill-fated wife, amy robsart, is buried. she was found dead at the foot of the stairs in cumnor place. after the inquest her body was brought to gloucester hall, and lay there till it was buried with full heraldic ceremonial on nd september in the choir of s. mary's church. the funeral sermon was preached by one of dudley's chaplains, who had just been transferred from the mastership of balliol to the rectorship of lincoln. he, fumbling for a phrase to express her violent death, "tripped once or twice by recommending to his auditors the virtues of that lady, so pitifully _murdered_." but there is no evidence that amy robsart was murdered, with or without the connivance of leicester. the story which sir walter scott has used in "kenilworth" is the baseless invention of political enemies. what happened to the unfortunate lady was either accident or suicide. the influence of leicester and the interest which as chancellor he took in the university, is marked by various acts which had an important effect upon the course of its development. in the chancellor, masters and scholars received the right of perpetual succession, and were thus relieved of the necessity of obtaining a new charter from each succeeding king. in this year too an act was passed, supplemented by further enactments in , by which one-third part at least of the rents to be reserved in college leases is required to be payable in corn or in malt. the continual rise in prices which has resulted ever since from the increase, and therefore depreciation, of the precious metals, has thus only impoverished the colleges so far as rents were fixed in money, but corn having more or less kept its value, the one-third of the rents so wisely reserved came to exceed the remainder by far. leicester revived the practice of nominating the vice-chancellor, and by an act of the university passed at his instigation ( ) a great step was taken in the direction of establishing the monopoly [illustration: the chapel quad jesus college] of the colleges in the government of the university. the preliminary deliberations of the black congregation, consisting of resident masters, were henceforth to be conducted by the vice-chancellor, doctors, heads of houses and proctors. leicester earned the reputation of being meddlesome, and he certainly used his position as chancellor in the dispensing of patronage. but many of his reforms were statesmanlike, and his endeavours to raise the standard of discipline and learning were evidently genuine. one of his chief aims was to prevent the possibility of romanising priests obtaining a foothold once more in the university. with this object he introduced among other provisions a test which was destined to have the most potent influence on the history of the place. every student above sixteen years of age was now required to subscribe on his matriculation to the thirty-nine articles and the royal supremacy. intended to exclude the romanising party only, this rule affected in the future mainly the descendants of the puritans who enacted it. thenceforth, mr brodrick remarks, the university, once open to all christendom, was narrowed into an exclusively church of england institution and became the favourite arena of anglican controversy, developing more and more that special character, at once worldly and clerical, which it shares with cambridge alone among the universities of europe. the country, meanwhile, was filled with the jesuits' propaganda. there was robert parsons, for instance, who had been compelled to resign his fellowship at balliol and had since joined the society of jesus. disguised as a soldier and armed with a secret printing press, he wandered about the country disseminating romanist literature. he finally brought off an extraordinary _coup_ at oxford. in a wood near henley he printed copies of a tract by campian, a fellow jesuit, and on commemoration day ( ) every member of the university found a copy of it in his seat at s. mary's when he came there to listen to the university sermon. proceedings against the roman catholics became more severe as the struggle continued. fellows were ejected from colleges; priests were hung, drawn and quartered. in the reign of james i. george napier of corpus, a seminary priest convicted of high treason, was so treated, parts of his quartered body being set over the gates of the city and over the great gate of christ church. puritan oxford, however, was not distinguished for learning or discipline, in spite of leicester's fatherly exhortations. for the chancellor rated the university for its deficiency in sermonising and lecturing, its lack of religious instruction and education of youth. and as to discipline, he finds fault with the prevailing excess in apparel "as silk and velvet, and cut doublets, hose, deep ruffs and such like, like unto or rather exceeding both inns of court men and courtiers." the streets, he complains, are more full of scholars than of townsmen, and the ordinary tables and ale-houses, grown to great number, are overcrowded day and night with scholars tippling, dicing, carding, tabling and perhaps worse. ministers and deacons were presently solemnly forbidden to go into the field to play at football or to wear weapons to maintain any quarrel under penalty of expulsion. plays acted by common stage players were forbidden, and scholars were not allowed, under pain of imprisonment, to sit on bulks or penniless bench or other open places, or to gad up and down the streets. leicester, however, made a reservation in favour of the "tragedies and comedies used to be set forth by university men," and he himself was entertained ( ) at christ church and at magdalen with pleasant comedies. the students, indeed, had shown themselves so unruly that the affrays and riots of the middle ages seemed to have been revived. the times were unsettled. not only were the roman catholics and the calvinists at feud alike with each other and the moderate party of the reformed church, whom the queen favoured, but the old quarrels between north and south and the welsh broke out again. and the old disputes between the town and the university had been reopened by a series of orders put forth by the privy council in which were intended to settle them for ever. the lack of discipline resulting from these causes is vividly brought before us by the attack made on the retinue of lord norreys by some scholars of magdalen who wished to revenge themselves for the punishment inflicted on one of their number for stealing deer in shotover forest. they were repulsed and "beaten down as far as s. mary's"; but when lord norreys was leaving the town, the scholars "went up privately to the top of their tower and sent down a shower of stones that they had picked up, upon him and his retinew, wounding some and endangering others of their lives. it is said that upon the foresight of this storm, divers had got boards, others tables on their heads, to keep them from it, and that if the lord had not been in his coach or chariot he would certainly have been killed." some progress, one hopes, had been made in the restoration of order when elizabeth paid her final visit "to behold the change and amendment of learning and manners that had been in her long absence made." she was received with the same ceremonies as before, but this time, at the divinity disputations in s. mary's, she did not hesitate to send twice to a prosy bishop and bid him "cut it short." the fact was that she was anxious to make a latin speech herself. but the bishop either could not or would not sacrifice his beloved periods, and the queen was obliged to keep her speech for the heads of houses next morning. in the middle of her oration she noticed the old lord treasurer, burleigh (cecil), standing on his lame feet for want of a stool. "whereupon she called in all haste for a stool for him, nor would she proceed in her speech till she saw him provided with one. then fell she to it, as if there had been no interruption. upon which one that knew he might be bold with her, told her, that she did it on purpose to show that she could interrupt her speech, unlike the bishop, and not be put out." in her speech she, "the only great man in her kingdom," gave some very good advice to the university, and took the opportunity of rebuking the romanising and the puritan factions of the church, counselling moderation on all sides. on her departure she again expressed her love for the place. "farewell, farewell, dear oxford," she exclaimed as she viewed its towers and spires from the heights of shotover. "god bless thee and increase thy sons in number, holiness and virtue!" [illustration: chapel in jesus] some outward and visible signs there certainly were that the queen's encouragement of learning and her policy of selecting for her service "eminent and hopeful students" had borne fruit. in jesus college, the first of the protestant colleges, had been founded by hugh ap rees, a welsh oxonian, at a time when the increase of grammar schools in wales was likely to produce an influx of welsh students into the university. the statutes were free from any local or national restriction, but welshmen always predominated, and jesus soon came to be regarded, in wales, as the national college. elizabeth figured as a nominal foundress; and the college, the front of which in turl street dates from her time, the rest being mainly seventeenth-century gothic, possesses a famous portrait of her by zucchero. a still more noble memorial of elizabethan times exists in bodley, as the great library is called after its founder, "whose single work clouds the proud fame of the egyptian library and shames the tedious growth o' the wealthy vatican." scarcely had the duke of gloucester's library been completed than it began to be depleted of its treasures. three volumes only out of that splendid collection now remain in the bodleian; one volume has found its way to oriel college, another to corpus christi; six others may be seen at the british museum. the rest had by this time been lost through the negligence of one generation or the ignorant fanaticism of another. for scholars borrowed books on insufficient pledges, and preferred to keep the former and sacrifice the latter. the edwardine commissioners, as we have seen, appointed to reform the university, visited the libraries in the spirit of john knox. all the books were destroyed or sold. in convocation ( ) "venerable men" were chosen to sell the empty shelves and stalls, and to make a timber-yard of duke humphrey's treasure-house! but the room remained; and it was destined, in its very emptiness and desolation, to work upon the imagination of one thomas bodley, an accomplished scholar, linguist and diplomatist, who believed with bury that a "library of wisdom is more precious than all wealth." born at exeter, he accompanied his father when he fled to germany from the papist persecutions. whilst other oxonian protestants were "eating mice at zurich," he studied at geneva, learning hebrew under chevalerius, greek under constantinus, and divinity under calvin. queen mary being dead and religion changed, young bodley was sent to magdalen. there, he tells us, he took the degree of bachelor of arts ( ). in the following year he was admitted fellow of merton college, where he gave public greek lectures, without requiring any stipend. he was elected proctor in , and was subsequently university orator and studied sundry faculties. he next determined to travel, to learn modern languages and to increase his experience in the managing of affairs. he performed several important diplomatic missions with great ability and success. on his return from the hague burleigh marked him out for the secretaryship, but grew jealous of the support he received from essex. bodley found himself unsuited for party intrigue and, weary of statecraft and diplomacy, decided to withdraw into private life. but whilst refusing all subsequent offers of high office, he felt that he was called upon "to do the true part of a profitable member in the state." all his life, whether immersed in affairs of state at home or lying abroad for the good of his country, he had never forgotten that ruined library at oxford. that there once had been one, he has to remind the university, was apparent by the room itself remaining. "whereupon, examining exactly for the rest of my life what course i might take, and having sought, as i thought, all the ways to the wood, to select the most proper, i concluded at the last to set up my staff at the library door in oxford." he wrote accordingly, offering ( - ) to restore the place at his own charge. the offer was gratefully accepted. bodley had married a rich widow, and his "purse-ability" was such that he was able to bear the expense of repairing the room, collecting books and endowing the library: a work, says casaubon, rather for a king than a private man. two years were spent in fitting up the room and erecting its superb heraldic roof. the ceiling is divided into square compartments, on each of which are painted the arms of the university, the open bible with seven seals (i rev. v. i) between three ducal crowns, on the open pages of which are the words, so truly fitting for a christian school: "dominus illuminatio mea." [illustration: cooks buildings s. john's] on bosses which intervene between each compartment are painted the arms of bodley himself. bodley now began to solicit his great store of honourable friends to present books to the library. his proposal was warmly supported by his countrymen in devonshire, where, as a contemporary records, "every man bethought himself now how by some good book or other he might be written in the scroll of benefactors." this scroll was the register which bodley had provided for the enrolment of the names of all benefactors, with particulars of their gifts. it consists of two large folios, ornamented with silver-gilt bosses on their massy covers, which lie on a table of the great room. bodley's own donations were large, and he employed a london bookseller to travel on the continent and collect books for the library. besides numerous private benefactors like lord buckhurst and the earl of essex in the early years, the stationers company agreed to give bodley a copy of every book which they published on condition that they might borrow the books thus given if needed for reprinting. this arrangement, in making which bodley said he met with many rubs and delays, was the precursor of the obligation of the copyright acts, by which a copy of every book published has to be presented to the bodleian and the british museum. in sir walter raleigh made a donation of fifty pounds, and he no doubt had some share in influencing the bestowal of many of the books which had once belonged to the library of bishop hieron. ossorius, and were carried off from faro in portugal, when that town was captured by the english fleet under essex. raleigh, an oriel man, was a captain in the squadron. the library was opened with full solemnity in , and in the following year king james granted letters patent naming the library after its founder. that was an honour most richly deserved, for bodley was "the first practically public library in europe; the second, that of angelo rocca at rome, being opened only in this same year." to this library, two years later, james, the pedant, who seemed determined to prove that a learned king, too, could be a crowned ass, paid a visit. after making an excessively feeble pun anent the bust of the founder in the large room, which had been sent there by the earl of dorset, chancellor of the university, he looked at the book shelves, and remarked that he had often had proof from the university of the fruits of talent and ability, but had never before seen the garden where those fruits grew, and whence they were gathered. he examined various mss. and discoursed wisely on them; took up the treatise by gaguinus entitled "de puritate conceptionis virginis mariæ," and remarked that the author had so written about purity, as if he wished that it should only be found on the title of his book. the opportunity of thus displaying his learning was so grateful to the king, that he was moved to an astonishing act of generosity. he offered to present from all the libraries of the royal palaces whatever precious and rare books sir t. bodley might choose to carry away. it does not appear that the number or importance of books so granted was in the event very great. upon leaving the room the king exclaimed, probably with sincerity, that were he not king james he would be a university man; and that were it his fate at any time to be a captive, he would wish to be shut up, could he but have the choice, in this place as his prison, to be bound with its chains, and to consume his days among its books as his fellows in captivity. to this library came james' ill-starred son, and here, it is said, he was tempted by lord falkland to consult the "sortes virgilianæ." the passage which first met his eye runs thus in dryden's translation: "let him for succour sue from place to place torn from his subjects and his son's embrace. and when at length the cruel war shall cease on hard conditions may he buy his peace." lord falkland then opened the virgil in his turn, hoping that his "lot" might remove the gloomy impression of this bad omen. [illustration: the gardens exeter college] but the passage on which he lit dealt with the untimely death of pallas: "o curst essay of arms, disastrous doom, prelude of bloody deeds and fights to come." to this library bacon sent his new book, "the advancement of learning," and here milton, leaving the allegro of horton or forest hill for the penseroso of oxford's cloisters, made friends with the librarian, and added his own poems to those treasures which were soon to be defended by the "unshaken virtue" of his friend, fairfax, and increased by the chancellor, oliver cromwell. this is not the place to catalogue the list of those treasures, the wealth of european literature and the mss. of the nearer and the farther east; the great collections which immortalise the names of the donors, like laud and selden, rawlinson, gough, douce and sutherland; the books which belonged to queen elizabeth and queen margaret, to shakespeare, ben jonson, addison and shelley; the curios and _objets-d'art_, princely gifts, like the arundel and selden marbles, coins and portraits, minor curiosities, like stuffed alligators and dried negro boys, or the lantern of guy fawkes, which have all found a resting-place in "this goodly magazine of witte, this storehouse of the choicest furniture the world doth yeelde, heere in this exquisite and most rare monument, that doth immure the glorious reliques of the best of men."[ ] in such a place, with such a history, it would be strange indeed if we did not feel something of the charm that breathes from the very stones of bodley. from the hot and noisy street you pass into the peaceful schools' quadrangle, lying beneath the shade of that curious tower, which, as it were an academic conceit in stone, blends the five orders of classic architecture with gothic turret and pinnacle. architecturally the "schools" are plain and poor, but you remember that bodley conceived the idea of rebuilding them, and that it was the day after his body had been put to rest in merton chapel ( th march ) that the first stone was laid. the bodleian forms the west side of this quadrangle. the east wing of the great library, built ( - ) by bodley when already there was "more need of a library for the books than of books for the library," is panelled like the divinity school, and stretches over the entrance to it, the proscholium or "pig market," where candidates for degrees were obliged to wait. the west wing extends over laud's late gothic convocation house ( - ); the books have usurped the third story of the schools and the clarendon building; they are filling the mighty camera beyond and overflowing into the ashmolean. but the entrance to the heart of this grand collection is a modest portal. it opens on a long winding stair, so long and so wearisome that you seem to have trodden the very path by which true knowledge is gained ere you pass through a simple green baize door and see the panorama of all learning, lit by the glass of the east window, outspread before your eyes. so to approach it, and passing by the outer library through the yielding wicket, into duke humphrey's gallery, there to turn into one of the quiet recesses, and calling for book after book, to summon spirits from the deep of the past, to hold quiet converse with them, while the breeze and sunlight flow gently in across wren's huge buttresses from the green garden of exeter, till bodley's own solemn bell calls them back to their resting-place; this, as has been well said, is the very luxury, or rather the very poetry of study. "what a place," exclaimed elia, "what a place to be in is an old library! it seems as though all the souls of all the writers, that have bequeathed their labours to these bodleians, were reposing here, as in some dormitory, or middle state. i do not want to handle, to profane the leaves, their winding-sheets. i could as soon dislodge a shade. i seem to inhale learning, walking amid their foliage; and the odour of their old moth-scented coverings is fragrant as the first bloom of those sciential apples which grew amid the happy orchard." the growth of the puritan feeling in oxford is shown by the formation of the first baptist society under vavasour powell of jesus college, whom john bunyan once accompanied to this city. the growth of the puritan tendency to preach is also indicated by the strange case of richard haydock, a physician of new college, who obtained some notoriety about this time by preaching at night in his bed. sermons, he said, came to him by revelation in his sleep, and he would take a text in his slumbers and preach on it, "and though his auditory were willing to silence him by pulling, haling and pinching, yet would he pertinaciously persist to the end and sleep still." he was not a married fellow evidently. king james sent for him, and he preached to the monarch in his sleep, but james made him confess that he was a fraud, who had adopted this curious means of advertising himself. the king and queen and prince henry visited oxford in , and were welcomed very much as elizabeth had been. the king, we are told, showed himself to be of an admirable wit and judgment. the scholars welcomed him by clapping their hands and humming, which, it was explained to him, signified applause. the presence of king james' court, however, was responsible, if we may believe wood, for a serious change in manners. for he traces the rise of that "damnable sin of drunkenness" to this time. "for wheras in the days of elizabeth it was little or nothing practiced, sack being then taken rather for a cordial than a usual liquor, sold also for that purpose in apothecaries' shops, and a heinous crime it was to be overtaken with drink, or smoke tobacco, it now became in a manner common, and a laudable fashion." the vice in fact grew so prevalent in oxford, as in the rest of england, that a statute was passed forbidding members of the university to visit any tavern and there "sit idly, drink, or use any unlawful play." the use of the latin tongue, attendance at lectures and the wearing of academical dress was also insisted on by the new chancellor, archbishop bancroft, who added an injunction that long hair was not to be worn: long hair in those days being accounted a sign not of a poet but of a swaggerer and ruffian. a few years later it was provided, as a measure directed against the still increasing vice of drunkenness, that no scholar should lodge without his college or hall, and that no citizen should entertain a scholar in his house. the gunpowder plot led to more stringent measures being taken to root out the roman catholics from the university. it is possibly to the deep impression made by that event that the foundation of wadham college is due. the founder of that college ( ), nicholas wadham, is said to have intended to endow a roman catholic college at venice, but to have decided to endow a number of non-clerical and terminable fellowships at oxford instead. his widow, dorothy, carried out his plans, and, after gloucester hall had refused the benefaction, purchased the site of the suppressed settlement of augustinian friars and built the front quadrangle with hall and chapel as, externally, we have them to-day. for the interior of the chapel was dealt with by the gothic revivalists ( ). the wadhams were west country folk, and the majority of workmen engaged were somersetshire men. it is suggested that the extraordinarily fine perpendicular character of the chapel choir is due to this fact; and that the masons reproduced, in the seventeenth century, the style of their county churches. the choir is a copy of fifteenth-century work; the ante-chapel and the rest of the quadrangle, so charming in its unadorned simplicity, are beautiful examples of the survival in oxford of the gothic tradition. quadrangles at merton and wadham are the most notable examples of this debased and nondescript style, redeemed by most excellent composition, proportioned like some elizabethan manor. james had been inclined at first to favour the puritans, but when he finally cast in his lot with the high church party, the university, which he, like elizabeth, had done his best to conciliate as the educational centre of the national clergy, supported him loyally. in the year of his accession he had granted letters patent to both universities, empowering them each to choose two grave and learned men, professing the civil law, to serve as burgesses in the house of parliament; and the universities were again indebted to him when they were called upon to furnish scholars for the great task of preparing the authorised version of the bible. thus oxford had its share in giving the book to the people. from this time forward every englishman was more than ever a theologian, and at the universities, as at westminster, theological controversy absorbed all energies. literature, says grotius ( ), has little reward. "theologians rule, lawyers find profit, casaubon alone has a fair success, but he himself thinks it uncertain, and not even he would have had any place as a literary man--he had to turn theologian." oxford, in return, declared itself on the side of passive obedience. the church embraced the doctrine of the divine right of kings; the university burned the books of paræus in s. mary's churchyard, and solemnly decreed that it was not lawful for the subject to resist his sovereign by force of arms, or to make war against him, either offensive or defensive ( ). thus it is evident that the influence of calvin had died away at oxford, and that the university had adopted, by the end of james' reign, the reactionary creed of laud, and was ready to support the stuart claim to absolutism. the divine right of kings and the divine right of bishops, as it was indicated by james' own phrase, "no bishop, no king," was to be for more than a generation the official creed of oxford schooled by laud. for meanwhile one william laud, b.d. of s. john's college, had filled the office of proctor and had been censured by the vice-chancellor for letting fall in a sermon at s. mary's divers passages savouring of popery. but he survived the reproof. president of s. john's from - , he set himself to reform the discipline of the university and to undo the work of leicester. in he was elected chancellor in opposition to the younger brother of the late chancellor, lord pembroke, who was supported by the calvinists. preaching on the points in dispute between calvin and arminius was at once forbidden. this, with laud as chancellor, meant that the puritans, who regarded laud's "high church" views as little better than popery in disguise and as exposing the country to a danger which was too near and too deadly to be trifled with, were muzzled or driven from the country; but their opponents, if they preached against the practices of geneva, met only with the mildest kind of rebuke. laud's experience of the university had convinced him of the necessity of revising and codifying the statutes "which had long lain in a confused heap." as chancellor he at once set about that difficult task. the caroline or laudian statutes were based on the old statutes and customs as collected, transcribed and drawn up by the antiquarian, brian twyne, fellow of c.c.c. laud rewarded him with the office of custos archivorum. it was from the vast and scholarly collections of brian twyne that wood quarried freely, and, it must be said, without due acknowledgment. but wood succeeded in a task beyond twyne's powers. he achieved immortality by clothing the dry bones of antiquarian fact or fancy in prose at times so racy and at times so musical. already ( ) laud had been responsible for the introduction of the cycle, which put an end to the riots that had hitherto attended the election of proctors. free election by the academical democracy had resulted in frequent abuses. the cycle invented [illustration: oriel window s. john's college] by peter turner of merton assigned to each college in turn, and in proportion to its size and dignity, the right of nominating proctors. the system, modified in and , still obtains. his care for discipline led the chancellor to make some much-needed reforms in the direction of diminishing the number of ale-houses and enforcing a proper system of licensing in the town. by his own proclamation he named a toll-gatherer for the market; he obtained an order from council for the destruction of cottages which the townsmen had erected round about the wall and ditch; and, in spite of a protest from the citizens, the caroline charter was obtained, confirming the rights of the university over the town. when the labours of twyne were finished and the delegacy had at last succeeded in codifying the laws and customs, the code was placed in the hands of laud. he corrected the draft, and in the corpus statutorum was promulgated, confirmed by the king and gratefully accepted by the university. the new code was destined to govern it for two hundred years and more. though to a great extent a digest of statutes already in force, the laudian statutes completed and stereotyped the changes which had long been taking place. the old order changes; the academic commonwealth becomes an oligarchy; the university is henceforth to be governed by a "hebdomadal board," and all power is definitely concentrated in the hands of the colleges and the heads of houses. the old scholastic disputations were superseded by a system of public examinations; the studies required for a degree were organised and defined; the tutorial system was emphasised by the regulation which required the student to enter under a tutor resident in the same college. the code was received with effusive gratitude. the popularity of laud was not merely due to the vigour with which he had been enforcing his views of orthodoxy, and compelling all, whether roman catholics or puritans, to recant if ever in their sermons they controverted the arminian doctrines, which the stuarts had adopted as the fundamental principles of their policy in church and state. for apart from his narrow church policy laud was, in university matters, both an earnest reformer and a great benefactor. he presented the library with a magnificent collection of oriental mss.; he founded and endowed the professorship of arabic, and, most valuable of all, he obtained for the university the right of printing bibles, which is one of the most valuable endowments of that insufficiently endowed institution to-day. besides his buildings at s. john's college, the building of the convocation house, adjoining the divinity school ( - ), with the extension of the bodleian above it, mark the chancellorship of laud, and as the seat of oxford's government fitly recall the age of its great lawgiver. the botanic gardens were also founded at this period, and the porch of s. mary's was erected in by the archbishop's chaplain, dr owen. the beautiful twisted columns of this, the south-west porch, are surmounted by a fine statue of the virgin, crowned, with the child in her arms. this statue gave such offence to the puritans, that it actually figured in the articles of impeachment against the archbishop. under laud the university had quite recovered its popularity. there were no less than four thousand students; many men of learning and piety were numbered among its alumni; discipline was to a great extent established. but the coming struggle soon began to upset the new régime. for the civil war was inevitably approaching. the chancellorship of laud was crowned by a visit from the king and queen in . but though the university and town went out, as was their custom, towards woodstock to meet their royal visitors, and though speeches and ceremonies were performed as usual, wood notes that in the streets "neither scholars nor citizens made any expressions of joy or uttered as the manner is, vivat rex!" the visit lasted three days. the elector palatine and prince rupert received honorary m.a. degrees. charles paid special attention to s. john's college, out of compliment to laud, who entertained the royal party there, and drew attention to the library he had enlarged and the quadrangle he had built, mainly out of the stones obtained from the old carmelite convent in beaumont palace--once the palace of kings. from that time forward s. john's was the most royalist of colleges. one of its most treasured possessions was the portrait of the royal martyr, "which has the whole of the book of psalms written in the lines of the face and the hair of the head." of this picture, as of other things, the story is told that charles ii. begged it of the college, and promised in return to grant them any request they might make. they gave the picture, and requested his majesty to give them--the picture back again. comedies were performed at s. john's and christ church. the play at s. john's, "the hospital of lovers" was "merry and without offence," but that at christ church, by william strode, the public orator, called the "floating island," had more of the moralist than poet in it. the scenery was realistic, but lord carnarvon declared the piece to be the worst he ever saw, except one at cambridge. another play at christ church, "the royal slave," by william cartwright, was more successful. the scenery of the interludes was arranged by inigo jones. the queen was so pleased with this piece, that she borrowed the persian dresses and the scenery of the piece and had it repeated at hampton court, but "by all men's confession, the players came short of the university actors." charles, in this matter at least, was more fortunate than his father. for james had suffered much boredom from a play called "technogamia, or the marriage of the arts," in which "there was no point and no sense but non-sense." he was with difficulty induced to stay to the end. "at christ church 'marriage,' done before the king, lest that those mates should want an offering, the king himself did offer--what, i pray? he offered twice or thrice to go away." chapter ix the royalist capital charles i. had matriculated at oxford in ; his brother henry had been a student at magdalen. on his accession to the throne, an outbreak of plague in london led to the meeting of parliament at oxford. for the accommodation of members, the colleges and halls "were ordered to be freed from the fellows, masters of arts and students." christ church was prepared for the reception of the privy council by the same process. the houses sat in the divinity schools. and some said that they caught the theological infection of the place, and that ever after that the commons thought that the determining of all points and controversies in divinity belonged to them. parliament returned the compliment by infecting oxford with the plague, which they had fled from london to avoid. the coming struggle was foreshadowed by conflicts between town and gown. once more the alarm bells of s. mary's and s. martin's rang out and summoned the opposing parties to the fray; once more it was true that when oxford drew knife england would soon be at strife. nothing, laud had noted, could be transacted in the state, without its being immediately winnowed in the parliament of scholars. windows were broken, proctors jostled; books were burnt by order of parliament; young puritans from new inn hall or lincoln were forced to eat their words. prynne's ears had been cut off, but the puritans multiplied their conventicles in oxford. but it was not till after laud's impeachment, and his short pathetic resignation of his chancellorship, dated from the tower, , that they grew so bold as to preach and discourse as they listed. then the puritan feeling grew rapidly not only among the townsmen but also in the colleges. a maypole set up in holywell in derision of a certain puritan musician was pulled down by the scholars of new inn and magdalen hall. the report that the mitre inn was a meeting-place for recusants, gave occasion for the enemies of laud to allege in the house of commons that through his influence the university was infected with popery. a certificate was accordingly drawn up by the heads of houses to the effect that "they knew not any one member of this university guilty of or addicted to popery." parliament, however, requisitioned the records of the university in order to obtain evidence against laud. some of his regulations, such as the encouraging of the use of copes and of latin prayers in lent, were indeed used to support the charge of high treason against him. the puritans, however, remained in the minority at oxford. the part which she would take in the civil war was never doubtful. laud had filled the chief posts of the university with carefully chosen high churchmen of great ability. oxford was committed to the doctrines of passive obedience, and fast rooted in the tenets of the anglican church. the university pressed upon parliament the duty of maintaining episcopacy and the cathedrals. the contemptuous treatment their arguments met with was contrasted with the reply of charles, that "he would rather feed on bread and water than mingle any part of god's patrimony with his own revenues." learning and studies, he maintained, must needs perish if the honours and rewards of learning were destroyed; nor would the monarchy itself stand long if the hierarchy perished. "no bishop, no king!" parliament, it was felt, had shown unfriendly feeling towards the university. the town, headed by alderman john nixon, had most unmistakably shown that its sympathies were with the parliament. it is not surprising therefore to find that in the coming struggle the university is always unreservedly on the side of the king. royalist colleges like new college and christ church took the lead, and puritan establishments like lincoln and magdalen followed unprotestingly. when ( ) a letter from the king at york, asking for contributions to his necessary defence, was laid before convocation, it was unanimously resolved that whatever money the university was possessed of, should be lent to the king. the colleges and private persons were equally loyal. university college set an example which was freely followed. the bulk of the college plate was pawned, and the sum advanced on it was immediately dispatched to the king. [illustration: from the high street] the parliament retorted in vain with prohibitory letters, and demanded the surrender of the chief champions of the king--prideaux, rector of exeter; fell, dean of christ church; frewen, president of magdalen; and potter, provost of queen's. since there was a strong report that divers troops of soldiers were constantly passing hard by the city on their march to secure banbury and warwick for the parliament, the university began to put itself in a posture of defence. masters and scholars rallied together on th august to drill in christ church quadrangle, and marched from the schools up the high street to the number of three hundred and thirty or more, making ready to defend the city. "on the saturday following they met at the schools again in the forenoon. thence they marched through holywell and so through the manor yard by the church where by their commanders they were divided into four squadrons of which two were musketeers, the third pikes, the fourth halberds. after they had been reasonably instructed in the words of command, and in their postures, they were put into battle array, and skirmished together in a very decent manner. they continued there till about two of the clock in the afternoon, and then they returned into the city by s. giles' church, and going through the north gate, went through the market-place at quatervois, and so down the high street, that so both the city and country might take notice thereof, it being then full market, to the schools, from which place they were soon after dismissed and sent to their respective colleges to their devotions." among the array are mentioned some divines and a doctor of civil law from new college, who served with a pike. as for drums and colours, those belonging to the cooks' corporation served their turn for the present. meantime the highway "at the hither end of east bridge, just at the corner of the chaplain's quadrangle of magdalen college," was blocked up with long timber logs to keep out horsemen, and a timber gate was also erected there and chained at night. some loads of stones were carried up to the top of magdalen tower, to be flung down on the enemy at their entrance. two posts were set up at smith gate, with a chain to run through them to bar the way; a crooked trench in the form of a bow was made across the highway at the end of s. john's college walks; and measures were taken to provide the scholars with barbed arrows. a strict watch was kept at nights. charles raised his standard at nottingham, and on th august sir john byron rode in at the head of one or two hundred troopers to secure oxford for the king. the scholars "closed with them and were joyful for their coming. yet some puritanical townsmen out of guilt fled to abingdon, fearing they should be ill-used and imprisoned." on st september twenty-seven senior members of the university, with the vice-chancellor, prideaux, and the proctors, formed themselves into what the scholars nicknamed a council of war, to arrange with byron for the safety of the university. drilling went on steadily in the quadrangles of christ church and corpus christi, of new college and magdalen. attempts were also made to take up osney bridge and to substitute a drawbridge. but the townsmen and their train-bands, which had assembled in broken hayes, objected, and the scholars and troopers were forced to desist. but a strong parliamentary force lay at aylesbury. it was evident that, with the best will in the world, a few hundred troopers and enthusiastic scholars could not hold the city, which lay at present so far from the king's quarters. the townsmen were by no means eager royalists. they made fair pretences of joining with the university and king's troops, but they informed parliament that all they had done for the king was at the instigation of the university. the university accordingly sent to aylesbury to inform the threatening parliamentarians there that they would lay down their arms and dismiss the troopers. dr pink, however, warden of new college and deputy vice-chancellor, who had gone to make his peace at aylesbury, was seized and committed to prison in the gate-house at westminster. on th september byron rode away. about a hundred volunteers from the university accompanied him, and most of them made their way to worcester before the siege. two days later colonel arthur goodwin rode into the city with a troop of parliamentarians. goodwin was lodged at merton, and his troopers picketed their horses in christ church meadows. the college gates were kept open, and the soldiers wandered in to see the cathedral and painted windows, "and much admired at the idolatry of them." lord say, the parliamentarian lord lieutenant of oxford, a new college man, arrived on th september, and immediately ordered that the works and trenches of the scholars should be demolished. the colleges were searched for arms and plate. the christ church plate was hidden by the staunch dr fell. it was found hidden in the walls behind the wainscot and in the cellar. the plate of university college was found in the house of mr thomas smith. this say adjudged to be lawful prize, but he told the fellows that as long as they kept their plate in places fit for plate, the treasury or buttery, it should remain untouched. the city was mustered at broken hayes, and the arms of the train-bands were shown to lord say, who shortly afterwards left the place with his men, for both sides were now massing their forces. little damage had been done, but "his lordship caused divers popish books and pictures, as he called them, which he had taken out of churches, and especially the houses of papists here in oxford and in the country, to be burned in the street, against the star inn," where he had lodged. and as they were leaving the town, one of the london troopers, when passing s. mary's church, discharged a brace of bullets at the "very scandalous image" of our lady over the porch, striking off her head and the head of the child, which she held in her right arm. another fired at the image of our saviour over all souls' gate, and would have defaced all the work there, if he had not been remonstrated with by the citizens. he retorted that they had not been so well entertained at oxford as they expected. say made a disastrous miscalculation in thus evacuating oxford. for within a few weeks it was destined to become and to remain the headquarters of the king. many royalists who had been wounded at edgehill were brought into oxford. on th october the king, with the duke of york, prince charles and rupert, rode in with the army at the north gate. the colours taken from the enemy were carried in triumph; the king was received by the mayor with a present of money at pennilesse bench, and the heavy ordnance, twenty-seven pieces in all, were driven into magdalen college grove. the princes and many of the court took their degrees. charles stayed but a short while, for, after having recruited his army and having been presented by the colleges with all the money they had in their treasuries, he presently left the city to make an advance on london. for reading had surrendered to the royalists, and rupert's daring capture of brentford now threatened the capital. but the junction of the train-bands of london with the army of essex forced charles to fall back on his old quarters at oxford. there the fortification of the town was giving him a firm hold on the midland counties. a plan of fortifications had been prepared by one rallingson, a b.a. of queen's college. a series of earthworks, with sharp angles flanking each other, was to be thrown up outside the town. on th december the university bellman had gone about the city warning all privileged persons that were householders to send some of their families next day to dig at the works. the citizens, however, who were set to work north of s. giles', were not enthusiastic. the king found only twelve of them working where there should have been one hundred and twenty-two, "of which neglect his majesty took notice and told them in the field." the trench and rampart thus begun by the privileged men and workmen paid by the colleges, ran from the cherwell at holywell mill, passing by wadham and s. john's gardens and s. giles' church up to the branch of the thames at walton bridge. next, similar earthworks were made to cover s. clement's, the east suburb. as time was pressing, and the city and county were not eager workers, the king called upon the university to help in february. the members of the various colleges were set to work on the line which ran from folly bridge across christ church meadow in front of merton. (the bastion traceable in merton gardens dates from this time.) in the following june every person resident in a college or hall between sixteen and sixty was required to give a day's work a week with pick and spade, or to pay for a substitute, if unable or unwilling to anticipate the labours of mr ruskin. finally (january ), the colleges were commanded to raise the sum of forty pounds a week for twenty weeks to complete the works. before leaving for reading, the king had reviewed the regiment of scholars in christ church meadows. they were armed with helmets and back and breast pieces. the regiment, which consisted at first of four companies only, soon grew, as enthusiasm waxed, to eight or nine companies. the gown was exchanged for the military coat, and square caps for the helmet. meanwhile arms and provisions had been accumulated, and ammunition, "the want wherof all men looked upon with great horror," had been thrown into the town. the new college cloister and tower were converted into a magazine for muskets, bullets and gunpowder; corn was stored in the law and logic school, and victuals in the guildhall. clothes for the army were stowed in the music and astronomy schools. the mill at osney was used as a powder factory. the king now established his court at christ church. never perhaps has there existed so curious a spectacle as oxford presented in these days. a city unique in itself, so the author of "john inglesant" has described it, became the resort of a court under unique circumstances, and of an innumerable throng of people of every rank, disposition and taste, under circumstances the most extraordinary and romantic. the ancient colleges and halls were thronged with ladies and gentlemen of the court, some of whom found themselves like fishes out of water (as one of them expressed it), when they were obliged to be content with "a very bad bed in a garret of a baker's house in an obscure street, and one dish of meat a day, and that not the best ordered, no money and no clothes." soldiers were quartered in the college gates and the kitchens. yet, amidst all this confusion, there was maintained both something of a courtly pomp and something of a learned and religious society. the king dined and supped in public, and walked in state in christ church meadow and merton gardens and the grove of trinity, which the wits called daphne. a parliament sat from day to day. for ( ) the members of both houses who had withdrawn from westminster were summoned to meet at oxford. the king received them very graciously in christ church hall, made them a speech, and asked them to consult together in the divinity schools and to advise him for the good of the kingdom. about three hundred commons and sixty peers thus sat at oxford, and a hundred commons and ten or a dozen peers at westminster, so that the country enjoyed the felicity of two parliaments at once, each denying the right of the other to exist. the branch at westminster rejected overtures of peace from the branch at oxford. the latter devoted themselves to finding funds for the war. contributions were called for, and the members themselves headed the list. a mint was established at new inn hall, and all plate that was brought in was coined.[ ] at westminster, on the other hand, the system of an excise upon beer, wine and spirits was invented. and whilst parliament sat in the divinity schools, service was sung daily in all the chapels; books both of learning and poetry were printed in the city, and the distinctions which the colleges had to offer were conferred with pomp on the royal followers, as almost the only rewards the king had to bestow. men of every opinion flocked to oxford, and many foreigners came to visit the king. christmas interludes were enacted in hall, and shakespeare's plays performed; the groves and walks of the colleges, and especially christ church meadow and the grove at trinity, were the resort of a brilliant throng of gay courtiers and gayer ladies; the woods were vocal with song and music; love and gallantry sported themselves along the pleasant river banks. [illustration: courtyard to palace] "many times," aubrey of trinity tells us, "my lady isabella thynne would make her entry into our grove with a lute or theorbo played before her. i have heard her play on it in the grove myself; for which mr edmund waller hath in his poems for ever made her famous." but old dr kettell of trinity had no feeling for this sort of thing. he lectured lady isabella and her friend mrs fanshawe in no mincing terms when they attended chapel one morning "half dressed, like angels." "madam," he cried by way of peroration, "get you gone for a very woman!" the poets and wits vied with each other in classic conceits and parodies, wherein the events of the day and every individual incident were portrayed and satirised. wit, learning and religion, joined hand in hand, as in some grotesque and brilliant masque. the most admired poets and players and the most profound mathematicians became "romancists" and monks, and exhausted all their wit and poetry and learning in furthering their divine mission, and finally, as the last scenes of this strange drama came on, fell fighting on some hardly-contested grassy slope, and were buried on the spot, or in the next village churchyard, in the dress in which they played philaster, or the court garb in which they wooed their mistress, or the doctor's gown in which they preached before the king, or read greek in the schools. this gaiety was much increased when the queen joined charles on th july . two thousand foot, one thousand horse, six pieces of cannon and two mortars, which formed her escort, proved a welcome addition to the cause. the queen, who had entered the city in great state and had been loyally welcomed, held her court at merton, where, ever since, the room over the archway into the fellows' quadrangle has been known as the queen's chamber. from it a passage was constructed through merton hall and its vestibule, crossing the archway over patey's quadrangle, and descending to the sacristy, thence by a door into the chapel, and so to the grove and the gardens of corpus. hence a door, still traceable, was opened in the garden wall, and the private way was continued till it reached the royal apartments in christ church. well might the classic wits compare the scene to the marriage of jupiter and juno of old, for here indeed wisdom and folly, vice and piety, learning and gaiety, terrible earnest even unto death and light frivolity jostled each other in the stately precincts of parnassus and olympus. meantime, the war was going more and more in favour of the king. parliament redoubled its endeavours. essex, whose army had been freshly equipped, was ordered to advance upon oxford. but he did not care to risk his raw forces, and contented himself with recapturing reading. the king was ready to "give him battle about oxford if he advanced; and in the meantime, encamped his foot upon the downs, about a mile from abingdon, which was the head-quarters for his horse." at westminster it was believed that charles could not withstand a resolute attack on oxford. disease, however, thinned the ranks of essex, and his inaction gave the queen an opportunity of dispatching to oxford a much-needed convoy of arms and ammunition. charles now felt that he could resist any attack, and even afford to send part of his small force from oxford to aid the rising in the west. at last, to quiet his supporters in london, essex advanced towards thame. his presence there, and the information given him by colonel hurry, a scottish deserter, provided rupert with an opportunity for making one of those daring raids which have immortalised the name of that dashing cavalry leader. essex had made a futile endeavour to capture islip. the same afternoon, with a force of about a thousand men, rupert sallied out, hoping to cut off a convoy which was bringing £ , from london to essex's army. an hour after midnight the tramp of his band was heard by the sentinels at tetsworth; two hours later, as the sky was whitening before the dawn, he surprised a party of the enemy at postcombe. he then proceeded to chinnor, within two miles of thame, and again successfully surprised a force of the enemy. it was now time to look out for the convoy. the alarm, however, had been given. the drivers were warned by a countryman, and they turned the heads of their team into the woods, which clothed the sides of the chiltern hills. rupert could not venture to follow. laden with prisoners and booty the royalists were returning to oxford, when, about eight o'clock in the morning, they found themselves cut off by the cavalry who had been dispatched by essex. rupert had just passed chalgrove field and was entering the lane which led to chiselhampton bridge, where a regiment of foot had been ordered to come out to support his return, when the enemy's horse was found to be overtaking him. he immediately ordered the guard with the prisoners to make their way to the bridge, whilst he with his tired troopers drew up on chalgrove field. the parliamentarians hoped to hold him till succour arrived from headquarters. it was a dangerous game to play with rupert. "this insolence," he cried, "is not to be borne." he was the first to leap the hedge behind which the enemy was drawn up. the roundheads fought that day as they had never fought before. they were put to flight at last, but not before hampden himself, who had slept that night at wallington and had ridden out as a volunteer at the sound of the alarm, had been seen "to ride off the field before the action was done, which he never used to do, with his head hanging down, and resting his hands upon the neck of his horse." he was indeed mortally wounded, and his death seemed an omen of the ruin of the cause he loved. disaster followed disaster. essex fell back towards london; bristol was surrendered into rupert's hands, and the flight of six of the few peers who remained at westminster to the camp at oxford proved the general despair of the parliament's success. but the discontent and jealousy which were always rife among the soldiers and courtiers in charles' camp, broke out afresh when the king returned to oxford after his failure to take gloucester. from this moment, indeed, the firmness of parliament and the factiousness and foolishness of the king's party began slowly to reverse the fortunes of the war. parliament obtained the assistance of scotland, and charles negotiated with the irish catholics. the alliance was fatal to his cause. many of charles' supporters left him; the six peers fled back to westminster. the covenant was concluded. a scotch army crossed the border and co-operated with fairfax and leven in the north; essex watched the king at oxford, and was presently supported by waller, who had been holding prince maurice in check in the west. the queen, who was _enceinte_, and afraid of being besieged, now insisted on leaving oxford (april ). she made her way safely to exeter. the royalists abandoned reading and fell back on oxford, where measures were being taken for defence. regiments were enlisted; trees were felled in magdalen walks, and means were provided for flooding the meadows beyond. batteries were erected at suitable points. one of these, at the north-east corner of the walks, was called dover pier (dover's peer?), probably after the earl of dover, who commanded the new university regiment. this regiment mustered for the first time on th may in magdalen college grove, and, along with the city regiment, was reviewed on bullingdon green a few days later. the rise in the ground at the end of addison's walk, which is still noticeable, is probably due to the high and strong causeway which we know led from the walks to the battery in the river. the parliamentarians advanced, abingdon was evacuated by the royalist army under wilmot, and occupied by essex. charles was forced to withdraw all his forces to the north of oxford. the king's position was now so serious, that it was confidently reported in london that oxford was taken and the king a prisoner. another rumour ran that the king had decided to come to london, or what parliament chiefly feared, to surrender himself to essex. presently, indeed, his own supporters advised this course, but his majesty indignantly rejected the suggestion, saying that possibly he might be found in the hands of essex, but he would be dead first. as no help could be looked for from north or west, he determined to stay in oxford and watch for an opportunity of fighting waller or essex separately. with this object in view he disposed his army so as to prevent the rebels from crossing the cherwell or isis, the foot holding the former and the horse and dragoons the latter. a series of smart skirmishes ensued. some of waller's forces attempted to pass the isis at newbridge, but were repulsed. the next day ( th may), however, essex crossed the thames at sandford ferry with his whole army and quartered himself at islip. on his way thither he halted on bullingdon green, "that the city might take a full view of his army and he of it." he himself rode up within cannon shot, whilst parties of his horse skirmished about the gates, and gave the scholars and citizens an opportunity of trying their prowess. "it gave some terror to oxon," says wood, "and therefore two prayers by his majesty's appointment were made and published, one for the safety of his majesty's person and the other for the preservation of the university and city, to be used in all the churches." but there was no intention of making an assault upon the town. essex was merely covering the passage of his baggage train. whilst he was thus occupied and the scholars were making a sortie, charles and rupert ascended magdalen tower and watched the movements of the enemy. next morning a determined effort was made by essex to pass over the cherwell at gosworth bridge, but he was repulsed by the musketeers with considerable loss. essex being now on the east side of the river and cut off from communication with waller, the king strove to avail himself of the opportunity of retaking abingdon and engaging waller singly. but after an unsuccessful move against abingdon, the design was abandoned, and the royalist forces were once more concentrated on the north side of oxford. sir jacob ashley, major-general of the foot, himself took command at gosworth bridge, where, he perceived, essex intended to force a passage. there he threw up breastworks and a redoubt, and succeeded in repulsing the enemy, who renewed their attacks from day to day and even brought up cannon to their support without avail. meanwhile, however, waller effected the passage of the isis at newbridge, quartered his van at eynsham, and threatened the rear of the king's army. ashley was compelled to retire. essex immediately threw his men across the cherwell, and quartered them that night at bletchington. his horse advanced to woodstock. the king seemed to be enveloped by the opposing armies. but after making a demonstration against abingdon, charles slipped out of oxford on the night of rd june. marching out with six thousand men by s. john's road, he made his way along a rough crooked lane and got clear away to the north of the city. he left the duke of york in the town, and promised, if the place was besieged, to do all he could to relieve it before it was reduced to extremity. but the town had scarcely enough provisions to stand a month's siege. a series of brilliant successes rewarded the perseverance of the king, for he now waited till essex marched to attack prince maurice at lyme, then turning on waller, crushed his army at copredy bridge on the cherwell, fourteen miles north of oxford. after two days' rest at oxford, he followed up his success by pursuing essex into cornwall and gaining a complete victory over him there. but in the midst of these successes came the news of the disaster in the north. the star of cromwell had risen where rupert's had begun to set, at marston moor. the battle of newbury checked the king's advance on london, and he withdrew once more to winter at oxford ( th october ). he was much pleased with the progress that had been made with the fortifications. in order to carry on his operations against waller and essex, he had been obliged to denude oxford of troops. but before leaving it he had provided for its safety. for parliament had a strong garrison at reading and another at abingdon, and the danger of a siege seemed imminent. the inhabitants were therefore commanded to provide themselves with corn and victuals for three months, or to leave the town "as persons insensible of their own dangers and the safety of the place." the safety of the place having been secured, the garrison had felt themselves strong enough to send out a force to the relief of basing-house. the objections of the governor, sir arthur aston, who had succeeded sir william pennyman in that office, were overruled. colonel gage made a dash from oxford, relieved the marquis of winchester and returned safely to oxford after having performed one of the most brilliant of the minor feats of arms that occurred during the war. charles, on his return, appointed him governor of oxford, in place of sir arthur aston, who had broken his leg. gage, who is buried in the cathedral, was killed shortly afterwards at culham bridge in an attempt to surprise abingdon. in the spring of oliver cromwell appeared in the parts about oxford. he was in command of some cavalry, and the object of his movements, in conjunction with those of sir thomas fairfax, was to prevent prince maurice from removing heavy guns from oxford to hereford, and thereby to disarrange charles' plan for an early campaign. cromwell routed northampton at islip. a party of the defeated cavaliers took refuge at bletchington house. cromwell called upon the governor, windebanke, to surrender. deceived by the sheer audacity of the demand, and moved, it is said, by the timorous entreaties of a party of ladies from oxford whom he was entertaining at bletchington, he yielded. windebanke paid dearly for his weakness. he was shot in the castle garden on his return to oxford. cromwell swept round the city and defeated sir henry vaughan at bampton. the parliamentarians had now achieved their object. they moved away from oxford. in a few weeks they were back again, and the new fortifications of the city were at length put to the test. the siege was heralded by the appearance of some scattered horse near cowley on th may. thence they, with other horse and foot, passed over bullingdon green to marston, and showed themselves on headington hill. on the nd fairfax sat down before oxford. he threw up a breastwork on the east side of cherwell, and constructed a bridge near marston, across which he passed some regiments. cromwell was commanding at wytham and major browne at wolvercote. the most considerable incident that occurred during the fifteen days' siege was a successful sortie in the direction of headington hill, which was made by colonel william legge, the governor of the town. then fairfax raised the siege and moved north; a few weeks later the fateful battle of naseby was fought. thereafter the king finally made his way to oxford from newark. here for a while he was safe; but in the spring fairfax marched upon oxford. the king was driven from his last refuge. at three in the morning of th april, disguised as a servant, with his beard and hair closely trimmed, he passed over magdalen bridge in apparent attendance upon john ashburnham and a scholar, one hudson, "who understood the byeways as well as the common, and was indeed a very skilful guide." "farewell, harry," glenham called out to his sovereign, as he performed the governor's duty of closing the gates behind him. charles' departure was kept so secret that fairfax, who arrived before oxford on the fifth day after, sat down before the city, and made his circumvallation before he knew of it. the duke of york and all the king's council remained shut up in oxford. fairfax found the city well prepared for a siege. "the rising ground to the north was protected by many strong bulwarks flanking one another. round about the line, both upon the bulwarks and the curtain, was strongly set with storm poles. outside the ditch was a strong palisade beyond which were many pits dug so that a single footman could not without difficulty approach to the trench. within the city were foot, and the place was well supplied with stores. all this strength being apprehended and considered by sir thomas fairfax, he concluded that this was no place to be taken at a running pull, but likely rather to prove a business of time, hazard and industry." accordingly he proceeded to make a fortified camp on headington hill, to make a bridge over the cherwell near marston, and establish a post between the cherwell and isis on the north for the main body of his troops. lines were drawn from headington to s. bartholomew's common road, and from thence to campus pits. a memento of the siege, a cannon shot which is said to have struck the gateway tower of s. john's college, is preserved in the library of that college. little progress, however, had been made with the siege, though the defence was for a lost cause, when charles, who had been handed over by the scots to a committee of the house, sent orders to the governor to make conditions and surrender the place to fairfax. honourable terms were granted. fairfax had expressed his earnest desire to preserve a place "so famous for learning from ruin." his first act, for he was a scholar as well as a soldier, was to protect the bodleian. a clause to the effect that all churches, colleges and schools should be preserved from harm was inserted in the articles of surrender. the liberties and privileges of the city and the university were guaranteed, and on th june the garrison, some three thousand strong, marched out in drenching rain over magdalen bridge, colours flying and drums beating, between files of roundhead infantry. so ended the great rebellion. and the history of it remained to be written by edward hyde, the earl of clarendon, who came to the task equipped with a wisdom that is born of a large experience of men and affairs. a moderate but faithful adherent of the royalist cause, he could say of himself that he wrote of events "quorum pars magna fui." he had been one of the king's most trusted advisers at oxford. there he lived in all souls' college, and the king wished to make him secretary of state. "i must make ned hyde secretary of state, for the truth is i can trust nobody else," wrote the harassed monarch to his queen. in his great history, so lively yet dignified in style, so moderate in tone and penetrating in its portrayal of character, he built for himself a monument more durable than brass. a monument not less noble has been raised for him in oxford out of the proceeds of that very book. for the copyright of the history was presented to the university by his son, and partly out of the funds thus arising the handsome building north-east of the sheldonian theatre was erected, from designs by sir john vanbrugh ( ). here the university press was transferred from the sheldonian theatre, where it had found its first permanent and official home. the "clarendon" press was removed in to the present building in walton street, when it had outgrown the accommodation of the clarendon building. like sir harry vane, clarendon had been educated at magdalen hall. the chair in which he wrote his history is preserved at the bodleian, and there too may be seen many of the notes which his royal master used to throw him across the table at a council meeting. there had been another inhabitant of oxford in these stirring days much affected by these events, a youth endowed with unbounded antiquarian enthusiasm and an excellent gift of observation. this "chiel amang them taking notes" was anthony wood, to whose work every writer on oxford owes a debt unpayable. born in the portionists' hall, the old house opposite merton and next door to that fine old house, beam hall, where, he says, the first university press was established, wood was carried at the age of four to see the entry of charles and rupert, and was a royalist ever after. educated first at a small grammar school near s. peter le bailey and then at new college school, he became familiar [illustration: the cloisters new college] with the aspect of old oxford as it was before the changes wrought by the siege, and he was able to transcribe into his notebooks many old inscriptions and memorials just before a period of wanton destruction. when the war broke out there was much ado to prevent his eldest brother, a student at christ church, from donning the armour with which his father decked out the manservant. the new college boys grew soldier-struck as they gazed from their school in the cloister upon the train-bands drilling in the quadrangle. they were presently turned out of their school to make room for the munitions of war. but i have no space to write of the vicissitudes of "a. w.'s" life; of the fate which befell his biographies of oxford writers; of his quarrels with dean fell, that staunch royalist and stern disciplinarian of whom every child learns to lisp in numbers: "i do not like thee, dr fell; the reason why i cannot tell. but only this i know full well, i do not like thee, dr fell." the first step taken for the "reformation" of oxford was a parliamentary order (july ) suspending elections in the university and colleges, and forbidding the granting or renewing of leases. the university petitioned fairfax to obtain the recall of this order, on the ground that it was contrary to the articles of surrender. the prohibition was not enforced. but the condition of the university was deplorable. the quadrangles were empty, the courts overgrown with grass. scholars ceased to come up, and those who were in residence were utterly demoralised by the war. before the changes and chances of war and religion, learning shrank in dismay and discipline disappeared. six presbyterian preachers were now sent down to supersede the royalist preachers, to beat the pulpit, drum ecclesiastic, and convince the university. all they succeeded in doing was to rouse the independents among the garrison who had already been practising in the schools and lecture-rooms. the military saints now set themselves, "with wry mouths, squint eyes, screwed faces, antic behaviours, squeaking voices and puling tones," to out-preach the proselytising presbyterians. royalist oxford rocked with laughter and congratulated itself prematurely that the revolution had begun to devour its own children. but a commission was appointed to visit the university in may . sir nathaniel brent, warden of merton, was chairman, and prynne a member. their proceedings were delayed by an absurd trick. the university had been summoned to appear before them in the schools between nine and eleven. but the preliminary sermon in s. mary's was of such length that eleven had struck and the university had dispersed before the commissioners could get to work. the university appointed a delegacy to act on its behalf, which drew up a very able and moderate series of reasons for not submitting to the tests that were to be proposed. the authority of the visitors was challenged. time was thus gained, and the struggle that was going on between the presbyterians and the independents paralysed the visitors. a committee of the lords and commons, however, presently armed them with fresh powers. after three hours of preliminary prayer, "a way" says wood, "by which they were wont to commence their actions for all sorts of wickednesses," they proceeded to inquire "into the behaviour of all governors, professors, officers and members." dr fell and the majority of the university offered a firm resistance. fell was seized and imprisoned. the action of the visitors, however, was still paralysed by the lack of constitutional authority. they were once more strengthened by the london committee. the business of deprivation began. sentence was passed upon half a dozen heads of houses, "but not a man stirred from his place." the university, in fact, continued to ignore the proceedings of the visitors. even after the arrival of the chancellor, lord pembroke, and of fairfax's troops, whom the visitors were empowered to use, the expelled heads refused to leave their colleges. mrs fell held the deanery of christ church valiantly. when the chancellor, with some soldiers, appeared there and desired mrs fell to quit her quarters, "she refused that kind proposal, had very ill language given to her by him, and then she was carried into the quadrangle in a chair by soldiers," and her children on boards. the buttery book was then sent for and fell's name dashed out. passive resistance of this kind and the use of every legal device to delay the action of the visitors were adopted everywhere. the university fought every inch of the ground, standing firmly on the vantage ground of constitutional right. but the gown usually has to yield to arms. new heads were appointed, new m.a.'s created, and the visitors proceeded to purge the colleges. every fellow, student and servant was asked, "do you submit to the authority of parliament in this present visitation?" those who did not submit were turned out. presently the negative oath was tendered, and subscription to "the engagement" was required. rather than submit to these tests over four hundred fellows preferred to be ejected. puritans, men for the most part of real learning and piety, were substituted, though those who suffered described "the new plantation of saints" as an illiterate rabble, "swept up from the plough-tail and scraped out of cambridge." at new college a very large proportion of the fellows were expelled: fifty at the lowest computation. the inquisition even extended its investigations to the college servants. the organist, sexton, under-butler, manciple, porter, groom and basket bearer were all outed, when they could not in conscience submit. at merton wood refused to answer, but by the goodwill of the warden and arch visitor, a friend of his mother, "a. w. was connived at and kept in his place, otherwise he had infallibly gone to the pot." the visitors acted, on the whole, in the spirit of genuine reformers. apart from imposing a system of puritan morals, they worked with a sincere desire to make the colleges fruitful nurseries of learning. what they did, and still more what they wished to do, with regard to the discipline of the place was on the right lines of educational advance. in july an attempt was made to recapture the guard and magazine in new college. the conspiracy was revealed by a boozing and boastful conspirator. two years later a mutiny of the garrison, in protest against excise, tithes and lawyers, was checked by the vigilance of colonel ingoldsby, the governor. fairfax and cromwell visited oxford to see how the reformation was progressing ( th may ), and lodged at all souls'. they dined at magdalen, where they had "good cheer and bad speeches, and afterwards played at bowls in the college green." they both received a d.c.l. degree, and cromwell assured the university that he meant to encourage learning. next year he became chancellor, and besides presenting some mss. he resisted the proposal to reduce the academical endowments which milton supported. learning and discipline were never popular; long sermons, compulsory attendance at innumerable religious exercises, and catechisms in the tutors' rooms were not more so. as the sands of the commonwealth ran out the approaching restoration found a welcome at oxford. it was a sign of the times that, when richard cromwell was proclaimed protector, the mayor and the troopers were pelted with turnip-tops by the scholars in front of s. mary's. without waiting for a formal proclamation of the new order, men reverted to it by a kind of spontaneous instinct. six weeks or more before the restoration, a bold man read the common prayer in s. mary magdalen church in surplice and hood, and that church was always "full of young people purposely to hear and see the novelty." at the news of the restoration all england "went mad with joy"; at oxford the rejoicing "lasted till the morning." and when coronation day came, "conduit ran a hogshead of wine." common prayer was restored and surplices; puritan preaching went out of fashion; the organs of magdalen, new college and christ church sounded once more; plays were performed and the solemn league and covenant was burnt. yet the prejudice against surplice and organ was deep. many still denounced organ-music as the whining of pigs. at magdalen men clad in surplices, with hands and faces blackened, paraded the cloisters at twilight to encourage the story that satan himself had appeared and adopted the surplice. filthy insults and ribald abuse were heaped upon the innocent garment. a royal commission visited the university to eject the intruders and restore those whom parliament had expelled. the presbyterians took the oath of allegiance and supremacy, and were allowed to hold their places unless some ejected fellow or scholar appeared to claim them. but at lincoln, where the independent faction was strong, several fellows were turned out, george hitchcock among them. he defied the bedel who was sent to arrest him when he refused to go. with a drawn sword and a sported oak hitchcock remained master of the situation until the arrival of the military who, undaunted, stormed the independent's castle and marched him off to jail. life at oxford resolved itself at last to peace and quiet study. "the tumult and the shouting dies, the captains and the kings depart"-- and the groves and quadrangles that had echoed with the clash of arms, the loud laugh of roystering cavaliers, or the gentle rustle of sweeping trains, or the whining of a puritan, now resounded with the noise of the bowling-green and tennis-court, or the chamber music of such scholarly enthusiasts as anthony wood with his fiddle, and edmund gregory with his bass viol. with the restoration a new kind of student came into prominence. very different from his mediæval brother was the new type of rich "young gentleman" so wittily satirised by dr earle, as one who came to oxford to wear a gown and to say hereafter that he had been at the university. "his father sent him thither because he heard that there were the best fencing and dancing schools.... of all things he endures not to be mistaken for a scholar." for it was now the fashion for students to live like men of the world, to keep dogs and horses, to swash it in apparel, to wear long periwigs. they discussed public affairs and read the newsletters in the coffee-houses. for canopus, the cretan, had set the example of drinking coffee, and in jacob the jew opened a coffee-house at the angel. four years later arthur tillyard, "an apothecary and great royalist, sold coffee publicly in his house against all souls' college. he was encouraged to do so," says wood, "by some royalists and by the company of 'vertuosi,' chiefly all souls' men, amongst whom was numbered christopher wren." with the restoration, too, the study of mere divinity began to go out of fashion, and a humane interest in letters began to manifest itself. plays, poems and drollery, the old-fashioned scholars complained, were in request. science, too, suddenly became fashionable. charles and the duke of buckingham took a keen interest in chemistry; prince rupert solaced his old age with the glass drops which are called after his name. at oxford many scholars already had private laboratories. robert boyle and peter sthael had for some time been lecturing on chemistry at the ram inn ( high street) to the curious, john locke included. the king now gave its title to the royal society, which had its origin in the inquiries of a little group of scientific students in london before the end of the civil war. it was now divided into two by the removal of its foremost members, dr wilkins, warden of wadham, and dr wallis, savilian professor of geometry, to oxford. the oxford branch of the [illustration: view from the sheldonian theatre.] society was strengthened by such men as sir william petty, the first of english economists, dr ward, the mathematician, robert boyle and christopher wren. in the lodgings of wilkins or petty they would meet and discuss the circulation of the blood or the shape of saturn, the copernican hypothesis, the improvement of telescopes or nature's abhorrence of a vacuum--any subject, in fact, which did not lead them into the bogs of theology or politics. "that miracle of a youth," dr christopher wren, was one of those deputed by the university ( ) to take a letter of thanks to henry howard, heir to the duke of norfolk, for his princely gift of the arundel marbles to the university. this gift the university owed to the kindly offices of john evelyn, the diarist. the marbles were laid in the proscholium till the sheldonian theatre was finished. ingeniously designed by wren to accommodate the university at the "act" or "encænia," this theatre was consecrated by archbishop sheldon ( ), at whose cost it was erected. sheldon was a warden of all souls', put out under the commonwealth and afterwards restored, before being promoted to the primacy. wren left many other marks of his genius upon oxford. the chapel of b.n.c. is said to be from his design, and may be, for it reveals the struggle that was going on ( ) between the oxford gothic, as the beautiful fan-tracery of the ceiling and the windows bear witness, and the italian style of the rest of the building. wren migrated from wadham to all souls', presenting on his departure a clock (now in the ante-chapel) to the college where he had been a fellow-commoner. in the college of which he, with sydenham, was made a fellow under the commonwealth, he made the great and accurate sun-dial, with its motto "pereunt et imputantur," that adorns the back quadrangle. his pupil hawksmoor it was who designed the twin towers of all souls' and the quadrangle at queen's, whilst wren himself designed the chapel, which he reckoned one of his best works. at trinity he gave advice to dean aldrich, made suggestions which were not taken, and actually designed the north wing of the garden quadrangle, one of the first italian buildings in oxford. at christ church he added, as we have seen, the octagonal cupola to wolsey's tower. the buttresses in exeter garden which support the bodleian are also the result of his advice. the beautifully proportioned building close to the sheldonian was presently built ( , wood, architect) by the university to house the valuable collection of curiosities presented to it by elias ashmole. when the plague broke out in london, charles and his court fled to oxford (september ), where, since july, a watch had been set to keep out infected persons flying from london. the king and duke of york lodged at christ church; whilst, all under the rank of master at merton having been sent to their homes, the queen took up her abode there till the following february. once more courtiers filled the college instead of scholars; the loose manners of the court were introduced into the college precincts; the king's mistress, lady castlemaine, bore him a bastard in december, and libels were pinned up on the doors of merton concerning that event. it is sadly recorded that founders' prayers had to be recited in english, because there were more women than scholars in the chapel. and as for the courtiers, though they were neat and gay in their apparel, yet were they, so says the offended scholar, "very nasty and beastly; rude, rough, whoremongers; vain, empty and careless." the house of lords sat in the geometry school, the house of commons in the convocation house, whilst the divinity school and the greek school were employed as a committee room and the star chamber. after sitting for a month and passing the act which prohibited dissenting ministers from coming within five miles of any city, parliament broke up in october. when this act was suspended in and nonconformists were allowed to meet in towns, provided they took out a licence, the independents [illustration: quadrangle & library all souls' college.] and baptists set up meeting-houses in oxford, the baptists meeting first in magdalen street and then in s. ebbe's parish. the nonconformist chapels were destroyed in the jacobite riot of , but in a new chapel was built behind the present chapel in the new road by the baptists and presbyterians in common. the _oxford gazette_ made its first appearance during charles' visit, the first number coming out on th november . again, in , parliament was summoned by charles ii. to meet at oxford on st march. he had written in january choosing merton, corpus and christ church to house him, his queen, his court[ ] and his parliament. the scholars as usual departed, but in a week the king dissolved the wicked, or week-ed, parliament, and the collegians returned to their quarters and the use of their silver plate, which they had wisely hidden from their guests. "we scholars were expelled awhile to let the senators in, but they behaved themselves so ill that we returned again," sang the poet of the day. for the rest of his reign the monarch was nearly absolute. "now i am king of england, and was not before," he remarked; and he signalised his victory over the exclusionist party, who wished to guard against the danger of a catholic king, by procuring, at oxford, the condemnation of stephen college, a protestant joiner, who was forthwith hung in the castle-yard. the sudden influx of so many persons into the town was calculated to send up the price of provisions. the vice-chancellor accordingly took the precaution of fixing a limit to the market prices. a pound of butter, for instance, sweet and new, the best in the market, was not to cost more than d.; six eggs d.; or a fat pig, the best in the market, s. d.; whilst not more than s. d. was to be charged in every inn for a bushel of the best oats. [illustration: oriel windows queen's lane.] meantime the university was not in too flourishing a state. "all those we call whigs," wood complains, "will not send their sons for fear of their turning tories, and because the universities are suspected of being popish." and stephen penton, the principal who built the chapel and library of s. edmund's hall ( ), thought it expedient to write that charming little book, "the guardian's instruction," in answer to the "rash and uncharitable censure of the idle, ignorant, debauched, popish university." but the manners of the place are indicated by such facts as these: "the act was put off because 'twas said the vice-chancellor was sickish from bibbing and smoking and drinking claret a whole afternoon." in the mayor and aldermen, who had been splendidly entertained by the earl of abingdon in return for their election of his brother to represent them in parliament, "came home most of them drunk and fell off their horses." about the same time three masters of all souls' came drunk to the mitre in the middle of the night, and because the landlady refused to get up and prepare them some food, they called her "strange names and told her she deserved to have her throat cut, whereupon being extremely frighted, she fell into fits and died." the masters were examined by the vice-chancellor and compelled to "recant in the convocation." a few months later a debauched master of arts of new inn was expelled for biting a piece off the nose of a b.n.c. b.a. at balliol the buildings were literally falling to pieces, and it was the solace of dr bathurst's old age to sit on his garden wall--he was president of trinity--and throw stones at the few windows that still contained any glass, "as if happy to contribute his share in completing the appearance of its ruin." this was the same dr bathurst, who as vice-chancellor, according to prideaux' story, had already done his best to encourage the "men of belial" to deserve the nickname bestowed upon them by nicholas amherst.[ ] "there is," wrote prideaux, "over against balliol a dingy, horrid, scandalous ale-house, fit for none but draymen and tinkers. here the balliol men continually lie and by perpetual bubbing add art to their natural stupidity to make themselves perfect sots." the master (dr goode, a good, honest old toast, and sometime a puritan) remonstrated with them and "informed them of the mischiefs of that hellish liquor called ale. but one of them, not willing to be preached so tamely out of his beloved liquor, made reply that the vice-chancellor's men drank ale at the split crow and why should they not too? the old man, being nonplussed with this reply, immediately packeth away to the vice-chancellor, formerly an old lover of ale himself," who informed him that there was no hurt in ale. accordingly the master told his men that since the vice-chancellor said there was no hurt in ale, though truly he thought there was, he would give them leave to drink it. "so now," prideaux concludes, "they may be sots by authority." in , wood notes, "fighting occasioned by drunkenness fell out in s. john's common chamber." common rooms, it may be observed, which were regarded as a luxurious innovation, had been introduced into oxford in by merton, where the room over the kitchen, with the cock-loft over it, was turned into a room "for the common use of the fellows." other colleges quickly followed an example which had been set eleven years before in the combination room of trinity at cambridge. the accession of james ii. was hailed at oxford with many expressions of loyalty. a large bonfire was lit at carfax and five barrels of beer broached in the town hall, to be drunk by all comers. there were bonfires in all the colleges, where the respective societies drank a health, kneeling, to the king and royal family. at merton, wood tells us, "the gravest and greatest seniors of the house were mellow that night, as at other colleges." and the coronation was celebrated by a sermon and bonfire at s. mary's and "great extraordinaries in eating and drinking in each college." but there were many townsmen who had been ready ( ) to shout for "a monmouth! a monmouth! no york!" and after monmouth's rebellion, when the university raised a regiment, whose uniforms at any rate were gallant, several of the citizens were arrested as rebels. it was not long before the bigotry and tyranny of james drove the university itself into that resistance to the royal authority which was so alien to its teaching and tradition. for james set himself to convert the training-place of the english clergy into a roman catholic seminary. the accession of a sovereign attached to the roman church had been the signal for many who had hitherto concealed their opinions to avow their devotion to that communion. the master of university college was one of those who had conformed to the rites of the anglican church whilst supporting so far as he dared, in the pulpit and the press, the doctrines of rome. he now openly avowed his conversion and did his utmost to promote the roman catholic cause. ave maria obadiah, as he was nicknamed from an academic catch of the time, was authorised by the king to appropriate some college rooms for a chapel under the roman ritual. he had already been absolved by a royal dispensation from the duty of attending the services of the church of england, and from taking the oaths of allegiance and supremacy. walker's doings were at first received with ridicule and then with indignation. but secure of the king's favour, he continued on his romanising way. he erected a press at the back of the college, and published, under royal licence, a series of controversial books maintaining romish doctrines. the university was disgusted and alarmed at this deliberate attempt to undermine the national church in the very centre of its chief stronghold. a pamphlet war ensued, but it was a war in which the king made it evident on the occasion of a visit to oxford in that he was on the side of obadiah. a statue of the monarch was set up over the gateway of the large quadrangle of university college to commemorate the visit of the royal "reformer of heresy." at christ church, meanwhile, massey, a convert and creature of walker, had been appointed dean by the crown and installed without protest by the chapter. the old refectory of canterbury college was fitted up as a private chapel for the dean's use, and james attended mass there. at all souls', too, the fellows had admitted as warden the nominee planted on them by the royal prerogative. but james was not to have it all his own way with the colleges. men had stiffer backs at magdalen. the office of president was vacant. the king recommended for election anthony farmer, a disreputable cantab of notoriously bad character, who had migrated to oxford, and who, never having been fellow either of magdalen or new college, had no qualification for the presidentship. but he was reputed to be inclined to romanism. this virtue was apparently sufficient in james' eyes; he ignored the objections stated by the fellows. the fellows in turn ignored the mandate of james and elected dr hough, a man to whom there could be no objection. cited to appear before the ecclesiastical commission on complaint that they had disregarded the king's mandate, the vice-president and fellows, through their delegates, justified their action by reference to their statutes and the character of farmer. jefferies, who presided, had to admit that farmer was proved to the court to be "a very bad man." the college was commanded to elect another tool of the king's, parker, bishop of oxford. the college held that the place of president was already filled. to enforce obedience, james now came over from woodstock ( rd september) in person. the king wore a scarlet coat, and an old beaver hat edged with a little lace, not worth a groat, as some of the people shouted. he proceeded very slowly to the north gate, where he found eight poor women all clad in white, some of whom strewed the way before the king with herbs, "which made a very great smell in all the street, continuing so all the night till the rain came. when he came to quatervois he was entertained with the wind music or waits belonging to the city and university, who stood over the penniless bench--all which time and after the conduit ran claret for the vulgar." the fellows of magdalen were summoned to the royal presence in christ church hall, where they were rudely reprimanded and bidden to go to their chapel and elect the bishop forthwith or they should know what it was to feel the weight of a king's hand. "is this your church of england loyalty?" james cried. "get you gone. i am king. i will be obeyed!" curious to think that william penn, who had formerly been sent down from christ church for nonconformity, was present at this scene; and a servitor of exeter, the father of the wesleys, quitted it, "resolved to give the tyrant no kind of support." the fellows protested their loyalty, but declared that it was not in their power to do what the king required. penn, the courtly quaker, endeavoured to bring about a compromise, but seems to have been convinced at last that an agreement was impossible. hough's comment on these negotiations was, "it is resolved that the papists must have our college. all that we can do is, to let the world see that they take it from us, and that we do not give it up." a commission was appointed. hough, who refused to surrender his lodgings, was declared contumacious, and his name was struck off the books. his lodgings were broken open; parker was introduced. twenty-five of the fellows were expelled, and were declared incapable of ecclesiastical preferment. the demies, who refused to recognise parker, were not interfered with by the commission; they remained in the college holding chapel services and disputations among themselves and ignoring the papist fellows who were being introduced. when they refused to obey the officers nominated by the king, eighteen of them were expelled. parker died, and gifford, a papist of the sorbonne, was appointed. all but two of the original fellows were now ejected, and their places were being filled up with roman catholics when it was brought home to james that he had been going too fast. he began to bid desperately for the support he had alienated. he restored the ejected fellows, but they had scarcely returned when william's supporters, under lord lovelace, entered oxford in force. they were received at the east gate by the mayor and magistrates in their black gowns, who went with them up the high street amid the shouts and congratulations of the people. meantime the master of university had fled to london with his nominee, the dean of christ. he was captured by the mob and thrown into the tower on a charge of high treason. and at oxford "trade," to use the judicious metaphor of an oxford priest, "declined." the jesuits, who had been "in a very hopeful way and had three public shops (chapels) open" there, found all their schemes frustrated. the intrigue and plotting of years were brought to nought. the coronation of william and mary was observed by a special act ceremony, in which one of the pieces recited was "magdalena ridens," magdalen smiling in triumph at the flight of her oppressor. october , , was the day on which james had restored the ejected fellows. ever since the college has observed that day, and yearly the members pledge each other in a loving-cup, _jus suum cuique_. chapter x jacobite oxford--and after among the demies elected at magdalen the year after the expelled fellows returned was joseph addison, whose name is traditionally connected with the northern part of the magdalen walks, where the kingfisher "flashes adown the river, a flame of blue," and henry sacheverell, his friend and chamber-fellow. the former outlined the pacific policy of the hanoverians in the freeholder; for the latter, when he hung out his "bloody flag and banner of defiance" against the existing order, as for atterbury, oxford was loud with the cheers of "honest" men. for during the first half of the eighteenth century oxford was violently jacobite. john locke, who had been suspected of complicity in shaftesbury's design against the succession, and had been removed ( ) from his student's place at christ church in accordance with the directions of a royal mandate, had warned william that the good effects of the revolution would be lost if no care was taken to regulate the universities. but the hanoverians avoided oppressive measures. the tory wine club, under the cabalistic name of high borlace, to which no member of a whig college like wadham, christ church, exeter or merton might belong, was allowed to meet annually at the king's head tavern on th august to toast the king across the water and drink confusion to the rival constitution club. but the triumph of the whigs at the accession of george i. and the disappointment of "honest" men, led to a great riot on the first anniversary of the birthday of the new sovereign. "mobs paraded the streets, shouting for the pretender and putting a stop to every kind of rejoicing. the constitution club had gathered to commemorate the day at the king's head. the windows were illuminated and preparations made for a bonfire. tossing up their caps and scattering money among the rabble that flocked to the front of the hotel, the jacobite gownsmen egged them on with shouts of 'no george,' 'james for ever,' 'ormond,' or 'bolingbroke!' the faggots were torn to pieces, showers of brickbats were thrown into the clubroom. the constitutioners were glad to escape with their lives by a back-door. thus baffled the mob rolled on to attack all illuminated houses. every whig window was smashed. the meeting house was entered and gutted.... at last the mob dispersed for the night, publicly giving out that 'the glorious work' was left unfinished till to-morrow. the twenty-ninth of may was associated with too significant reminiscences to be allowed to pass in quiet. sunday though it was, the streets were filled with people running up and down with oak-boughs in their hats, shouting, 'king james, the true king. no usurper! the good duke of ormond.' the streets were brilliantly illuminated, and wherever disregard was shown to the mob's fiat, the windows were broken.... the crowds grew thicker and noisier towards even. a rumour had got abroad that oriel had given shelter to some of the constitutionalists. the mob rushed to the attack and threatened to break open the closely-barred gates. at this moment a shot from a window wounded one of the ringleaders, a gownsman of brasenose, and the crowd fled in confusion to break fresh windows, gut the houses of dissenters, and pull down the chapels of anabaptists and quakers" (green). the omission of rejoicings on the birthday of the prince of wales led to further disturbance. the major of a recruiting party then in oxford drew out his regiment to celebrate the day. they were attacked by the crowd, and were obliged to have resource to blank cartridges. the matter was made the occasion of a grand debate in the house of lords. but in the meantime the government had shown its appreciation of the dangerous disloyalty of oxford by dispatching major-general pepper thither with a number of dragoons, on the outbreak of mar's rebellion. martial law was at once proclaimed, and suitable measures were taken "to overawe the university." the crown had recently purchased bishop moore's magnificent library and presented it to cambridge. the difference in the treatment of the two universities inspired dr trapp, the first professor of poetry, to write the famous epigram: "the king, observing with judicious eyes the wants of his two universities, to oxford sent a troop of horse; and why? that learned body wanted loyalty. to cambridge books he sent, as well discerning how much that loyal body wanted learning." to which the cambridge wit, sir thomas browne, retorted with still greater neatness and point: "the king to oxford sent a troop of horse for tories own no argument but force; with equal care to cambridge books he sent, for whigs admit no force but argument." the famous county election of , when the jacobite rioters held the approach to broad street, but the whigs managed to slip through exeter college and so gain the polling booths, shows that oxford had not changed its sentiments, but when tory principles mounted the throne with george iii., jacobitism disappeared like a dream. the reign of toryism did little to promote the cause of learning or conduct. during the eighteenth century examinations for a degree were little better than a farce; "e'en balaam's ass if he could pay the fee, would pass," sang the poet. lecturers ceased to lecture; readers did not read. in many colleges scholars succeeded to fellowships almost as a matter of course, and tutors were as slow to enforce, as "gentlemen commoners" would have been swift to resent, any study or discipline as part of the education of a beau or buck. though oriel produced bishop butler, for oxford was still the home of genius as well as of abuses, the observance of religion dwindled down to a roll-call. and corrupt resignations of fellowships, by which the resigning fellow nominated his successor, in return for a fee, were paralleled in the city by wholesale corruption at elections. the mayor and aldermen in even had the effrontery to propose to re-elect their representatives in parliament for £ , the amount of the municipal debt! this bargain, in spite of a reprimand from the speaker and a committal to newgate for five days, they succeeded in striking with the duke of marlborough and lord abingdon. for the rest, it was the age of periwigs and patches, of coffee-houses and ale, of wine and common rooms, of pipes and newsletters, of a university aping the manners of london and bath in merton college gardens or the race-course of woodstock. bucks and bloods were succeeded by the smarts, whose beautiful existences terræ filius has described for us. called by the servitor at six, they tumbled out of bed, their heads reeling with the last night's debauch, to attend a chapel service. for the habit of early rising was still in vogue, and though a smart might rise late, his lateness seems early to us. for it was held disgraceful to be in bed after seven, though carried there over-night drunk but not disgraced. but the smart's breakfast was scarce over by ten; a few notes on the flute, a glance at the last french comedy, and in academic undress he is strolling to lyne's coffee-house. there he indites a stanza or a billet-doux to the reigning sylvia of the town; then saunters for a turn in the park or under merton wall, while the dull regulars, as amherst has it, are at dinner in hall according to statute. dinner in his rooms and an hour devoted to the elaborate business of dress, and the smart is ready to sally forth in silk-lined coat with laced ruffles at breast and wrist, red stockings and red-topped spanish leather shoes, and laced hat or square cap most rakishly cocked. so emerging from his rooms, with tripping gait and jaunty dangle of his clouded amber-headed cane, he is about to pay a visit to the coffee-house or parade before the windows of a toast when he stops to jeer at some ragged servitor of pembroke, a samuel johnson perhaps, going round shamefacedly in worn-out shoes to obtain second-hand the lectures of a famous christ church tutor, or a george whitefield, wrestling with the devil in christ church walks, or hesitating to join the little band of methodists who, with charles and john wesley of christ church and lincoln at their head, are making their way through a mocking crowd to receive the sacrament at s. aldate's, s. george's in the castle or s. mary's. but the smart cares for none of these things. sublimely confident in his own superiority he passes on; drinks a dram of citron at hamilton's, and saunters off at last to chapel to show how genteelly he dresses and how well he can chaunt. next he takes a dish of tea with some fair charmer, with whom he discusses, with an infinite nicety of phrase, whether any wears finer lace or handsomer tie-wigs than jack flutter, cuts a bolder bosh than tom paroquet, or plays ombre better than valentine frippery. thereafter he escorts her to magdalen walks, to merton or paradise gardens; sups and ends the night, loud in song, deep in puns, put or cards, at the mitre. whence, having toasted his mistress in the spiced cup with the brown toast bobbing in it, he staggers home to his college, "a toper all night as he trifles all day." meantime certain improvements were taking place in the city. under the commissioners act ( ) the streets were widened and paved, and most of the walls and gates removed--bocardo along with them. turnpike roads and the enclosures acts led to the disappearance of the highwaymen, by whom coaches, ere railways took the place of the "flying coach," which first went to london in one day "with a. w. in the same coach" ( ), had so frequently been held up near oxford. curiously enough highwaymen were most popular with the fair sex, and the cowardly ruffians occasionally returned the compliment so far as to allow them to ransom their jewels with a kiss. dumas, the prince of highwaymen, after capturing a coachful of ladies, was satisfied with dancing a coranto with each in turn upon the green. he was executed at oxford. he had maintained his nonchalance to the end; played "macheath" in the prison, and threw himself off at the gallows without troubling the hangman. it was not death, he declared, but being anatomised that he feared. and, lest their hero should be put to so useful a purpose, a large body of bargemen surrounded the scaffold, carried off the body in triumph to the parish church and buried it in lime forthwith. at length, after the age of reason and materialism, came the age of revival and romance. the spirit of mediævalism summoned up by sir walter, was typified in oxford architecture by sir gilbert scott and pugin. in the university the beginning of a new order of things, which was to end in throwing open the universities to the whole empire and rendering them on every side efficient places of education, was begun in by the system of honours lists, long advocated by reformers like john eveleigh of oriel and brought into being by the energy of cyril jackson, dean of christ church, and parsons, master of balliol. the work of nationalising the universities was developed by the two university commissions and by that "extension" movement, of which the pioneer was william sewell, a remarkable tutor of exeter, who, in , urged that "it may be impossible to bring the masses to the university, but may it not be possible to carry the university to the masses?" this development of the university, which must ever be closely connected with the name of dr jowett, master of balliol, and has received a further significance from the last testament of cecil rhodes, of oriel, is illustrated on every side by new buildings; by the indian institute, the nonconformist colleges, mansfield and manchester, the women's halls, the science buildings and the new foundation of hertford college, grafted on that of old hart hall and magdalen hall by mr baring. intellectually the spirit of revolt produced by the french revolution at the beginning of this period, is illustrated by the careers of shelley and landor, and the musical lyrics of swinburne; the deep questionings prompted by the tractarian movement are voiced in the poems of clough, keble and arnold. for in the first half of the nineteenth century there was a revival of spirituality, and men followed the lead, not of a wycliffe, an erasmus or a wesley, but of keble, pusey and newman. oriel college, whose fellowships were confined neither to members of the college nor, in most cases, to candidates from certain places, was the centre whence men like hurrell froude, keble's pupil, preached their doctrine of reaction; men who, finding the church of england in a very parlous state, counselled a return to what was best in mediævalism, and, protesting against the protestantism of the english church, taught newman to look with admiration towards the church of rome. the name of keble and the impulse which he gave to anglicanism are commemorated in keble college; the prominence of the chapel, which contains holman hunt's "light of the world," and the arrangement of the buildings emphasise the fact that it was founded to provide the poorer members of the church of england with higher education on church lines. the revival of mediævalism in religion was echoed by a revival of mediævalism in art. john ruskin, who had matriculated at christ church in , lectured intermittently as slade professor of art from till . william morris, "poet, artist, paper-hanger and socialist," came up to exeter in and there, in intimate friendship with sir edward burne-jones, looked out upon "the vision of grey-roofed houses and a long winding street and the sound of many bells," which was, for him, oxford. the two friends have left behind them signs of their genius in the famous tapestry at exeter chapel and in the windows of the cathedral; whilst at corpus and in the schools the great teacher gathered round him a circle of enthusiastic young men, and like an abelard, wycliffe, wesley or newman in the religious world, so advised and inspired them with his social and artistic gospel, that when, in pursuance of the old monastic principle "laborare est orare," he called upon them to mend a farmer's road at hincksey, they laid aside their bats and oars, and marched, with the professor at their head, to dig with spade and shovel. out of such inspiration grew the various university settlements in the east end of london, inaugurated by arnold toynbee. oxford owes much to the stimulating if incoherent teaching and the generosity of john ruskin,[ ] but architecturally his influence was responsible for several bad buildings in the would-be venetian style--the christ church new buildings and the natural history museum in the parks, for instance, proving deplorably enough that the critic was no creator. last, but not least, it is good to be able to record that city and university have gradually settled their differences. the new municipal buildings and the town hall in s. aldate's would seem, by their deliberate variety of styles, to give municipal sanction to every style of architecture that can be found in the university, and to look back upon the history of the town, and of the learned institution with which for good and evil it has been so closely connected, with no ungracious feeling. index abelard, peter, abingdon, village of, ; toll of herrings paid to monastery of, act of supremacy, addison, joseph, demy at magdalen, Æthelred, the unready, building of s. frideswide by, - agnellus of pisa, builder of first school of grey friars, , alfred, king, claim of, as founder of university, , ; relics of, , allen, dr thomas, astrologer, arthur, prince, son of henry vii., at oxford, bacon, roger, - balliol, sir john de, founder of balliol hall, , ; intended work of, carried out by widow, , bancroft, archbishop, chancellor, prohibition by, of long hair, and other reforms instituted by, barbers, regulations concerning, , barnes, joseph, new press at oxford set up by, barons, struggle of, with king, and effect of at university, _seq._ basset, alan, first endowment for oxford scholar provided by, beaumont, palace at, built by henry beauclerk, ; site of, ; grant of, to carmelite friars, , _bedford hall_, or charleton's inn, purchased for site of all souls', bells, famous osney, bible, authorised version, ---- bamberg, ---- mazarin, , _black assizes_, the, , _black death_, the, ; effect of, on learning, ; provisions against, in statutes of corpus christi, ; causes of, ; outbreaks of, , , , , ; regulations concerning, _blue boar_, the, old inn known as, _bocardo_, old gate house, used as prison, called, _passim_ bodley, thomas, founder of library, - bodleian library, formation of, _seq._; visit of james i. to, ; of charles i. and falkland, ; some rare books and treasures belonging to, ; building, and description, of, , ; extension of, by laud, ; preservation of, from injury by fairfax, botanic gardens, foundation of, _botany bay_, gardens known as, _brasenose hall_, purchased by university, brazen nose knocker, carried to hamford and back to oxford, , brethren of the holy trinity, settlement of, in oxford, _broad walk_, origin of name of, , brome, adam de, foundation of hall, afterwards king's hall, and oriel college by, burne-jones, e., works of, at oxford, , bury, richard de, founder of first public library in oxford, , , ; dispersion of books of, ; college proposed by, taken under edward iii.'s protection, campion, edmund, jesuit poet, funeral sermon of founder of s. john's preached by, _canditch_, origin of name, canterbury, early school of literature at, carfax, origin of name, , ---- tower, cathedral (see also under s. frideswide) ---- lady chapel of, , , ---- portions of, remains of s. frideswide's, ---- restoration of parts of, by sir gilbert scott, cathedral, latin chapel of, , ---- chapter-house of, ---- spire of, , catholic reaction, the, _seq._; two colleges due to, ; decrease of, after cranmer's death, _cat street_, now s. catherine's, caxton, press set up in westminster by, champeaux, william of, chancellor, jurisdiction of, _seq._; extension of jurisdiction of, - ; jurisdiction of, supreme over certain classes, ; penalties imposed by, , ; office of, made permanent and non-resident, chancellor's court, as held in mediæval times, , ---- cases brought before, , , chancellorship, first mention of, charles i., entertainment of, at s. john's, ; portrait of, ; plays performed in honour of, ; court held by, at oxford, _seq._; return to oxford of, after failing to take gloucester, ; desertion of, by his supporters, ; serious position of, ; rejection of advice to surrender by, ; disposition of army of, , ; unsuccessful move of, against abingdon, ; escape from oxford of, ; successes against essex of, ; defeat of, at newbury, ; retirement of, to oxford, ; escape in disguise from oxford of, ; handing over of, by the scots, ; order to oxford to surrender sent from, charles ii., keen interest in chemistry taken by, ; conferring of title on royal society by, ; refuge in oxford from plague taken by, ; parliament convened by, at, ; victory of, over exclusionist party, chichele, archbishop, colleges founded by, , , , ---- prosecution of war with france by, _chests_, kept in old congregation house, ; ceremony in connection with, - church property, seizure of, by wolsey, , churches, number of, in d'oigli's time, ; increase in number of, in henry i.'s time, ; old, of which no trace remains, s. aldate, , carfax, s. clement, "boiled rabbit," s. ebbe, remains of, s. frideswide, first site of, ; burning of, ; rebuilding of, by Æthelred, - ; restoration of, by robert of cricklade, ; description and date of architecture, , ; damage of, by fire, ; chapter-house of, ; school connected with, ; western bays of, destroyed by cardinal wolsey, , ; conversion of, into cathedral church of christ, s. giles', s. martin's, s. mary's, , ; university business transacted at, ; famous sermons preached at, ; older portions of, ; pinnacles added to, , ; buttresses and statues of, ; chancel and nave of, , ; convocation held in chancel of, ; erection of porch of, s. nicolas, s. peter's, crypt of, , ; chancel, porch, etc., of, , cobham, thomas, bishop of worcester, enlargement of s. mary's designed by, , ; books of, pawned for funeral expenses, ; dispute concerning same between oriel and the university, colet, john, course of lectures by, on epistles of s. paul, ; letter to erasmus from, colleges and halls-- _all souls'_, first foundation of, ; prominence to study of law and divinity given at, ; bedford hall purchased for site of, ; quadrangle of, ; codrington library, etc., of, _balliol_, first foundation of, , , ; regulations concerning scholars at, ; fellowships at, ; erection of buildings of, in fifteenth century, ; present chapel of, ; manuscripts brought to, by william grey from italy, _brasenose hall_, purchase of, ; conversion of, into college, ; famous knocker of, , ; foundation stone of college laid, _christ church_, founding of, by wolsey, , ; suppression of religious houses to procure the funds for, , ; laying of foundation stone of, ; hall, and other buildings of, ; migration of cambridge students to, , ; introduction of lutheran tenets by same, ; fortunes of, involved in fall of wolsey, , ; opposition of members of, to king's divorce, ; answer of king to wolsey concerning, ; later foundation of, ; court established at, by charles i., ; residence at, of charles ii., _corpus christi_, first of the renaissance colleges, ; foundation of, by richard foxe, bishop of winchester, , ; statutes of, ; provisions of, for teaching of new learning, , ; curious sun-dial at, ; sculpture over gateway at, ; connection of, with magdalen, _exeter_, first foundation of, ; statutes of, ; refounding of, ; modern buildings of, _jesus_, first protestant college, foundation of, by hugh rees, ; elizabeth, nominal foundress of, ; statutes of, _king's hall_, _lincoln_, first founding of, ; buildings of, as planned by bishop fleming and finished by john forest, dean of wells, ; remodelling of foundation of, ; famous sermon preached on behalf of, ; valuable book brought by robert fleming from italy to, _magdalen_ (s. mary magdalen), first foundation of, ; statutes of, - ; laying foundation stone of, ; wonderful old trees in "grove" at, ; arrangement of buildings of, ; "founder's tower" at, ; statutes of, based on those of new college, , ; visit of edward iv. to, ; of richard iii., ; of henry vii., ; old pieces of tapestry at, ; bell tower of, , ; wolsey's share in design of, ; obit for henry vii. kept by, ; ceremony at, on may day, , ; school of, , ; restoration of ejected fellows of, by james i., ; ceremony in commemoration of, ; refusal of, to accept president chosen by james ii., _seq._ _merton_, first foundation and statutes of, ; regulations of, , ; "secondary scholars" of, , ; revision of statutes of, by walter de merton, , ; remains of old buildings of, ; chapel of, , ; quadrangles of, , ; mediæval library of, , ; valuable books in possession of, ; "mob" quad. at, ; "poore scholars" at, ; buildings provided for commoners at, known as s. swithun's, , ; court held at, by henrietta maria, , ; residence at, of charles ii.'s queen, _new_, first foundation of, ; provisions of, as drawn up by william of wykeham, , ; plan of buildings of, , ; chapel windows of, ; ecclesiastical aspect of, ; cloisters of, converted into powder magazine, _oriel_, first foundation of, , ; buildings bought for, _s. john baptist_, foundation of, by sir thomas white, on site of old college of s. bernard, , , ; munificence of laud to, ; buildings at, by laud, ; loyalty of, to king, ; history of precious relic preserved at, ; colonnades of, _s. mary's_, erasmus at, ; dissolution of and conversion of building to other purposes, ; remains of ancient building of, ; present house on site of, _university_, earliest endowment, ; legend of foundation of, , ; lawsuit in connection with, , ; _french petition_, ; real founder of, ; incorporation of, ; statutes of, , ; removal of scholars of, to present abode, ; purchases of houses made by, , ; tenements acquired by, known as great and little university hall, and _cock on the hoop_, , ; fortune left to, by dr john radcliffe, , _wadham_, foundation of, by nicholas wadham, ; somersetshire men employed as builders on, ; style of building of, _worcester_, gloucester hall, afterwards s. john baptist hall, refounded as, ; hall, library and chapel of, ; beautiful gardens of, colleges and chantries made over to the king by parliament, , _commons and battels_, explanation of terms of, _commoners_, explanation of term of, ; increase in number of, _seq._; system of, first definitely recognised, - congregation house, old, _seq._; university library first lodged there, ; description of scene in, on appointment of new guardians of "chests," - convocation, or great congregation, held in chancel of s. mary's, convocation house, building of, by laud, constantinople, fall of, crafts and guilds, market stands appointed to different, , cranmer, archbishop, imprisonment and martyrdom of, - ; portrait of, cromwell, thomas, vicar-general of england, , cromwell, oliver, appearance of, near oxford, ; defeat of northampton by, ; of sir henry vaughan by, ; surrender of cavaliers at bletchington house to, ; visit to oxford of, to watch progress of reformation, _crown inn_, old, danes, massacre of, ; ravages of, , davenant, john, ---- sir william, shakespeare sponsor to, _de haeretico comburendo_, divinity, decline of study of, after restoration, divinity school, and library, erection of, , ; gifts towards, from cardinal beaufort and thomas kempe, bishop of london, , , divinity schools, parliament sitting at, d'oigli, robert, remains of castle of, ; possession of oxford by, ; houses owned by, ; restoring of fortifications by, ; description of, ; marriage of, ; castle of oxford built by, ; s. michael's tower built by, ; story of conversion of, , ; churches founded by, , ; landmarks left of time of, ; death of, and successor to, d'oigli, robert, nephew of above, ; story of wife of, , dress, regulations for, of different members of the university, , , _drogheda hall_, drunkenness, rise of, ; increase of, dudley, robert, earl of leicester, reforms instituted by, as chancellor, , dumas, highwayman, execution of, at oxford, _durham hall_, - ; dissolution of, by henry viii., durham monastery, students sent to oxford from, edmund, king, death of, , edmund, earl of cornwall, abbey of regulars founded by, edward ii., share of oxford in deposition of, edward iv., visit of, to magdalen, eglesfield, robert, foundation of queen's by, , ; statutes drawn up by, elizabeth, queen, accession of, ; needlework of, preserved in bodleian, ; deputation from university to, ; reception of, at oxford, , , ; leave-taking of, ; second visit of, to oxford, ; speech by, , ; departure of, , , erasmus, visit of, to oxford, ; reception of, ; description by, of oxford and scholars, ; works of, essex, advance upon oxford of, , ; occupation of abingdon by, ; defeat of, at gosworth bridge, ; defeat of, in cornwall, fairfax, sir thomas, investment of oxford by, ; withdrawal of, ; renewal of siege by, ; camp of, on headington hill, ; surrender of oxford to, ; visit of, to oxford to watch progress of reformation, fellows, ceremony gone through at all souls' previous to admittance as, , fleming, bishop, "collegiolum," beginning of lincoln college, founded by, ---- robert, compiler of græco-latin dictionary, _folly bridge_, , , foxe, richard, bishop of winchester, founder of corpus christi college, , ---- provision for teaching of new learning made by, , friars, coming of the, , ; influence of, ; academic studies of, ; conflict of, with university regarding degree of arts, , ---- austin, settlement of, in oxford, ---- black, lands and buildings granted to, ---- carmelite, first coming of, ; palace of beaumont granted to, , ---- library and church of, ---- crossed, or cruched, settlement of, in oxford, ---- grey, story of arrival of, in oxford, - ; benefactors of, , ; site chosen by, for settlements, ; _rule_ of, ; grant of henry iii. to, , ; convent of, ; first school of, ; libraries of, ; eminent men from schools of, , ---- penitentiarian, or brothers of the sack, arrival of, in oxford, and early suppression of, garret, thomas, lutheran, account of escape and arrest of, - gibbon, edward, historian, "gentleman commoner" at magdalen, giraldus cambrensis, visit to oxford of, , ; account of same by, _gloucester hall_, history of, , (see worcester college) godstow village, and remains of nunnery of, great schism, the, greek, introduction of study of, into england, _greeks and trojans_, representatives of old and new learning so called, grey, william, manuscripts brought from italy by, grinling gibbons, carvings by, in queen's library, ; in trinity chapel, grossetete, robert, , ; authority of, over university, ; intervention of, on behalf of university, guarino of verona, pupils of, from oxford, gunpowder plot, halls, origin of old names of, hampden, death of, hanoverians, pacific policy of, harold, cnut's successor, death of, at oxford, hawksmoor, nicholas, architect, , , haydock, richard, pretence of, to miraculous preaching, henry beauclerk, , henry ii., ; quarrel of, with becket, , ; encouragement to literary culture given by, , ---- iii., support given to, by oxford dominicans, ; struggle of, with barons, _seq._ ---- v. at queen's college, ---- vii., visit to oxford of, ; endowment of university by, in return for memorial service, ; munificence of, ; gift of, towards magdalen bell tower, ; obit established by, for widow of warwick, the king-maker, ; obit kept for, by magdalen, ---- viii., call on university for judgment concerning divorce by, , ; marriage of, declared void, ; refusal of, to despoil the colleges, hermitage of "our lady in the wall," _high street_, _holywell manor_, hospitals and hermitages, various, in oxford, hostels, halls practically, ; regulations concerning, hoton, richard of, prior of durham monastery, erection of college by, _house of converts_, foundation of, by henry iii., ; later converted into "blue boar," ; site of, occupied by modern town hall, houses, built of stone by jews, and after great fire, ; description of, by wood, ; names of, according to structure, humphrey, duke of gloucester, acquisition by university of library of, , , ; death of, ; three books only of remaining in bodleian library, ; loss and destruction of remaining ones, hyde, edward, earl of clarendon, historian of the great rebellion, , inigo jones, gateway of physic garden, designed by, ; colonnades and garden front of s. john's by, ; scenery of interludes arranged by, inns, old, , irishmen, statute ordering, to quit the realm, ; exemption of irish students from, ; complaints against, jackson, t. g., architect, james i., visit of, to bodleian, and gift of, to library, - ; visit of, to oxford with queen and prince henry, ; letters patent to university, granted by, ; play performed in honour of, ---- ii., accession of, ; endeavour of, to transform the university into a roman catholic seminary, _seq._; election of president of magdalen by, ; visit to oxford of, to enforce obedience from fellows of magdalen, ; change of policy of, and restoration of ejected fellows by, jewry, deadly feud of, with priory of s. fridewide, , jewries, great and little, boundaries of, jews, protection enjoyed by, , ; wealth and insolence of, ; persecution and banishment of, ; place of burial granted to, jousts, or tourneys, reason for forbidding, , jurisprudence, revival of study of, kempe, thomas, bishop of london, gift towards completion of divinity school and library from, , _king's mead_, laud, william, archbishop, election of, as chancellor, ; statutes of, ; university reforms of, , ; suppression of puritanism by, ; general reforms of, ; munificence of, in gifts, endowments, etc., learning, state of, during early middle ages, , lewes, battle of, linacre, thomas, lollardism, centre of, at oxford, , ; stamping out of, ; continued support of, in oxford, and final suppression of, - ; students' riots in connection with, lutheranism, introduction of, by cambridge students, ; measures taken to stamp out, ; arrest of adherents of, - ; proscription of heretical books, _mad parliament_, the, meeting of, in convent of black friars, margaret, countess of richmond, foundation of colleges by, ; of readerships at oxford and cambridge, marsh (de marisco) adam, , marston moor, battle of, martyr, catherine, wife of peter, _martyrs' memorial_, mary, queen, prosecution of protestants by, _seq._ master of arts, first mention of degree of, matilda, queen, besieged by stephen, ; escape of, from oxford castle, merton, walter de, founder of merton college, _seq._; statutes of, , more, thomas, , ; execution of, morris, william, , naseby, battle of, new learning, the, at oxford, , ; oxford students attracted to italy by, ; opposition of old learning to, ; king and wolsey supporters of, , northampton, defence of, by students during wars of the barons, _northerners_ and _southerners_, main division of students into, ; encounters between, - ; respective attitudes of, towards lollardism, old learning, rise of, against greek and heresy, osney, monastery of, tale in connection with foundation of, , ; beauty of, ; destruction of, , ; picture of, in old window, ; famous bells of, , ; mill at, used for powder factory, _our lady in the wall_, old hermitage known as, oxford, town of, legend of origin of, , ---- vill. of, early existence of, ; first religious community at, ; first mention of, ; old boundaries and roads of, ; old tower of castle mound of, ; natural defences of, , ; gemots held at, , ; assembly held at, to appoint cnut's successor, ; death of harold at, ; submission of, to conqueror, ; record of, in domesday book, , ; old wall of fortification of, , ; old entrance to, ---- castle of, ; additions to, and remains of, ; romantic episode connected with, , ; position of, , ---- charter granted to, by henry ii., , ; crafts and guilds of, - ---- quarrel of town of, with university, and penalty imposed on, for usurping jurisdiction, , , ; insanitary condition of, in early times, ; description of streets of, in mediæval times, ; penalties incurred by citizens of, after riot on s. scholastica's day, ; charter of, taken from and restored to, by henry viii., ; reforms at, as to licensing, etc., introduced by laud, ; sympathies of, with parliaments, , ; entry into, of parliamentary troops, , ; evacuation of, by same, ; entry into, of royalist troops, ; plan of defences at, ; court established at, ; description of spectacle presented by, at this time, - ; sitting of parliaments at, ; gaieties at, , ; mustering of royalists at, ; siege of, by fairfax, , ; surrender of, ; honourable terms granted to, by fairfax, ; parliament convened at, ; rise in price of provisions at, ; jacobite riots at, - ; later improvement at, , _oxford gazette_, first appearance of, oxford, university of, possible origin of, ; origin of, as given by rous, and in historica, , ; controversy as to priority of, , ; alfred as founder of, , ; independence of, ; account of, by giraldus cambrensis, , ; migration to, of scholars from paris, , , ; quarrel of, with town regarding ecclesiastical jurisdiction, , ; penalty imposed on, , ; second migration to, of scholars from paris, ; privileges and customs of, , ; first houses bought by, , ; spirit of, as opposed to spirit of church, ; rise of scholastic philosophy at, ; support of lollardism by, _seq._; articles drawn up by, for reform of church, , ; representatives of, at constance, ; precincts of, as defined in reign of henry iv., ; classes held to be "of the privilege of," , ; number of scholars at, ; attitude of, during barons' war, ; during struggle between edward ii. and the supporters of the queen, ; further privileges secured by, after riot on s. scholastica's day, , , ; effect of lawlessness of students upon, ; reforms adopted by, ; causes of decay in prosperity of, ; stagnation at, in fifteenth century, ; political time-serving of, ; gifts to, by henry vii., ; change in character of, at close of middle ages, ; charter granted to, at request of wolsey, ; grievances arising from favour shown by crown to, , ; struggle arising from grant of charter to, , ; repeal of same, ; confirmation of old charter of, and fresh disturbances at, , ; called on to decide in favour of separation from rome, ; learning at, checked by early development of reformation, ; charter of, taken over by king, and restored, ; visitation of, in , ; enforcement of "edwardian statutes" at, ; reception of queen elizabeth by, , ; feuds at, between roman catholics and calvinists, ; letters patent granted to, by james i., ; support of absolutism by, ; revision of statutes of, by laud, ; recovery of popularity by, under laud, ; support of royalists' cause by, _seq._; defence of city undertaken by, , ; council of war formed by, ; offer of, to laydown arms, ; escape of volunteers belonging to, before the siege, ; liberties and privileges guaranteed to, by fairfax, ; elections suspended at, by parliament, ; deplorable condition of, ; parliamentary commission to, _seq._; royal commission to, ; gift of arundel marbles to, ; drunkenness and general degeneracy at, ; resistance of, to james i.'s policy, ; depreciation of learning at, during reign of toryism, , ; description of life at, , ; revival of new order of things at, ; development of, , ; revival of spirituality at, ; of mediævalism, papal legate, arrival of, at oxford, ; flight of, ; english shores forbidden to, paris, university at, ; famous scholars at, , ; development from schools of notre dame of, ; migration from, owing to king's quarrel with becket, , ; further migration from, of scholars, parsons, robert, dissemination of romanist literature by, peasant revolt, , _perilous hall_, bought by oriel, penn, william, endeavour of, to bring about a compromise between james i. and fellows of magdalen, philargi, peter (alexander v.), only graduate of oxford or cambridge who became pope, physic garden, first land set apart for study of plants, , ; trees, etc., grown in, _pie-powder court_, plays, first acting of, in colleges and halls, ; performed in honour of royalty, poets laureate, rhetoricians so styled, popery, enforcement of edwardian statutes against, , , _port meadow_, printing, lack of encouragement of, at oxford, , proctors, first mention of, ; office of, protestantism (see also under lutheranism), enforcement of, at oxford under edwardian statutes, , ; reaction against, pullen, robert, lectures of, on bible, puritanism, growth of, in oxford, ; suppression of, by laud, ; struggle of, with high church party, , radcliffe, dr john, court physician, radcliffe quadrangle, infirmary, observatory, and library, rede, william, bishop of chichester, gift of library to merton by, reynolds, sir joshua, windows by, rich, edmund, story of, - richard iii., visit of, to magdalen, richard, earl of cornwall, foundation endowed by, ridley and latimer, martyrdom of, - robert of cricklade, restoration of s. frideswide by, robsart, amy, death of, roger de mortimer, roman catholics, proceedings against, , rood, theodore, of cologne, first oxford press set up by, , rotherham, thomas, chancellor of cambridge and archbishop of york, foundation of lincoln remodelled by, rous, john, old chronicler, account of origin of oxford by, _rowley abbey_, foundation of, by friars, ; dissolution and remains of, royal society, the, , ; title conferred on, by charles ii., rufinus, tyrannius, work by, being the first book issued from the oxford press, rupert, prince, daring raid of, , ; surrender of bristol to, ; defeat of, at marston moor, ; solace of, in old age, ruskin, john, revival of mediævalism in art by, ; indebtedness of oxford to, ; influence of, on architecture, saint aldate's road, , ; old house in, saint bartholomew, hospital of, foundation of, by henry i., ; ceremony on may day at, ; relics preserved at, , ; base use of, by parliamentarians, ; restoration of, , ; remains of, saint frideswide, legend of, saint frideswide, shrine of, ; destruction of, , ; new shrine of, ---- illustration of tale of, in window by burne-jones, ; translation of relics of, ---- priory of, suppression through wolsey's agency of, , ---- fair of, revival of, _saint george's tower_, old castle of oxford known as, _s. john the baptist_, hospital of, , _s. michael's tower_, , say, lord, parliamentary lord lieutenant of oxford, enters town with troops, ; evacuation of town by, science, propagation of, at university after restoration, scholastic philosophy, methods of, , ; schools of, - ; final downfall of, , _scotists_ and _thomists_, rival camps of, , scott, sir gilbert, , , , selling, william, introduction of study of greek by, ; pupils of, shakespeare, as sponsor to sir william davenant, . simnal, lambert, simon de montfort, support by oxford franciscans of, ; terms of reform drawn up by, , ; country in hands of, ; espousal by universities of cause of, ; rise of, to head of the state, skelton, john, poet, , ; attitude of, towards wolsey, , ; position in court held by, _spicer hall_, known later as university hall, stamford, migration of scholars to, ; famous brazen nose knocker carried to, stampensis, theobaldus, lecturer, stapleton, walter de, bishop of exeter, foundation of hall, afterwards exeter college, by, stephen of blois, election of, as king, ; oxford besieged by, stillington, bishop, submission to henry vii.'s demands by, _stockwell street_, students, mediæval, studies of, carried on at different centres, , ; journey to, and arrival in oxford, , ; rents and prices regulated in favour of, ; entrance into university life of, ; ceremony of initiation among, , ; daily life of, _seq._; one meal a day of, ; restrictions on amusements of, , , ; punishments inflicted on, , ; dress of, , ; different grades of, ; main division between, ; revolt of, against masters, ; conflicts of, with citizens, _seq._; political significance of riotings of, ; resistance to papal interference of, ; disturbances among, during barons' war, _seq._; espousal of de montford's cause by, ; defence of northampton by, ; terrible riot of, with citizens on s. scholastica's day, - ; religious conflicts between, ; effect of lawlessness of, on university, ; reforms necessitated by, students, new class of, introduced after the restoration, , sweating sickness, , , _tackley's inn_, bought by oriel, tapestry, old piece of, at magdalen, thames, old branches of, , tiptoft, john, earl of worcester, present of mss. from, _tom, great_, bell called, , _tom quad_, , _tom tower_, building of, ; cupola of, by wren, _town_ and _gown_, riots between, _seq._; riot between, on s. scholastica's day, - travelling, dangers of, in old times, tristrope, john, famous sermon on behalf of lincoln college by, _turl_, the, origin of name, university (see under oxford) ---- library, lodged in _old congregation house_, ; removal of, to duke humphrey's library, ; methods of securing and preserving books belonging to, , ; catalogue of, ; statutes concerning, , ; gift to, by humphrey, duke of gloucester, ; books and manuscripts from italy brought to, ; gift of manuscripts from laud to, vacarius, lectures on civil law given by, in england, ; order to cease from lecturing received by, from stephen, vitelli, cornelio, introduction of polite literature into schools of oxford by, vives, juan luis, first professor of humanity at corpus christi, , waller, ; army of, crushed at copredy bridge, waterhouse, mr, architect, waynflete, william patten, or, barbour of, bishop of winchester, foundation of hall of s. mary magdalen by, ; resignation of chancellorship by, ; statutes drawn up by, - william, archdeacon of durham, founder of university college, , , william of wykeham, fashion of erection of pinnacles set by, ; foundation of s. mary, or new college, by, ; life and works of, _seq._ wolsey, thomas, cardinal, building of _tom quad_ by, , ; destruction of western bays of s. frideswide by, , ; fellow and senior bursar of magdalen, ; attacks on, by skelton, , ; charter to university granted at request of, ; foundation of christ church by, ; seizure of church property for same, , ; downfall of, , ; appeal of, to king, concerning his college, wood, anthony, historian of oxford, , ; quotations from, _passim_ woodstock, palace and park, construction of, by henry beauclerk, wren, sir christopher, cupola of tom tower by, ; architect of trinity, ; deputed to carry letter of thanks to henry howard for gift of arundel marbles, ; marks of his genius left on oxford, , wycliffe, john, _seq._; position of, at oxford and at court, ; alliance of, with lancastrian party, ; summons to, for erroneous teaching, , ; opposition to papacy declared by, ; religious movement started by, , ; attack on friars by, , ; heretical doctrines of, and conflict of, with church, _seq._; death of, ; remains of, dug up and burnt, printed by turnbull and spears, edinburgh footnotes: [ ] _cornhill magazine._ [ ] pie-powder court--a summary court of justice held at fairs, when the suitors were usually country clowns with dusty feet--(_pied poudré_). [ ] the earliest mention of oxford occurs in the anglo-saxon chronicle under the year . it is there spelt oxnaforda and oxanforda, and in domesday book it is spelt oxeneford. coins from eadward's day onwards show that ox at least was regarded as an essential element in the word, and it is most easy to assume that the place was called after the ford of the oxen in the river here. but the easiest explanation is seldom the best. and a rival theory explains the name as a corruption of ouse-ford, or ousen-ford, _i.e._, the ford over the river. for the evidence is strongly in favour of the probability that the name ouse was at one time applied to the thames, which indeed has one of the dialectic forms of the word ouse retained in it, viz. tam-_ese_, though the theory that the junction of the isis or ouse and thame made tamisis = thames, is fanciful. the other form of the word is retained in the oseneye of osney abbey, and a tributary stream retains the hardened form ock. therefore ousen-ford or oxen-ford may mean the river-ford. there is no certainty in these matters, but the latter derivation commends itself most. [see parker's "early oxford" (o.h.s.), to which i have been frequently indebted in the first part of this chapter.] [ ] the manor took its name from a well that lay to the north side of the church of s. cross. the manor-house, itself (near the racquet courts) was recently used as a public-house, called the cock-pit, because there was a pit where the citizens of oxford fought their mains. it was afterwards converted into a penitentiary, a home for fallen women. traces of the holy well have recently been discovered beneath the new chapel. [ ] the wall is clearly traceable between and high street. the passage by no. is a piece of the old royal way under the walls. this way can be traced in king's street from its western edge to the gardens of the small houses facing the new examination schools. it occurs again in ship street, from jesus college stables to the rear of the houses facing them, and again between the divinity school and the west front of the theatre. (see hurst, "topography.") [ ] the crypt, which had been beneath the apse of the chapel, was afterwards replaced approximately in its position, north-east of the tower. the capitals of the four dwarf pillars which support the groining are interesting, and should be compared and contrasted with those in s. peter's in the east. [ ] the original crypt is preserved and a norman arcade, east of the north aisle. [ ] aldrich was a man of remarkable and versatile talents. the author of admirable hand-books on logic, heraldry and architecture, he was equally skilled in chemistry and theology. in music he earned both popularity and the admiration of musicians by his catches, services and anthems; and as an architect he has left his mark on oxford, in peckwater quadrangle (ch. ch.) and all saint's church. as a man of sense he loved his pipe, and wrote an amusing catch to tobacco; as a wit he gave five good reasons for not abstaining from wine: "a friend, good wine, because you're dry because you may be, by and bye;-- or any other reason why." it was under aldrich that the battle of the books arose, the great literary controversy, which began with the immature work of a christ church student and ended with the masterpieces of swift and bentley. [ ] it was probably built for him. some of the original tudor work remains, but the greater part of the visible portions are rough jacobean imitation, of the year . [ ] during the restoration of the cathedral in a remarkable crypt was discovered beneath the paving of the choir. it was but seven feet long by five and a half, and contained lockers at each end. it has been most reasonably supposed that this was a secret chamber, where the university chest was deposited. this crypt, situated between the north and south piers of the tower, was covered up after investigation. the site of it recalls the time when charitable people were founding "chests" to help the education of the poor. grossetete in issued an ordinance regulating s. frideswide's chest, which received the fines paid by the citizens. from this and other charitable funds loans might be made to poor scholars on security of books and so forth, no interest being charged. charity thus entered into competition with the usury of the jews, who had to be restrained by law from charging _over per cent._ on loans to scholars ( ). [ ] the vintnery, the quarter of taverns and wine cellars, which was at the north end of s. aldate's, flourished mightily. the students, for all their lust of knowledge, were ever good samplers of what rabelais calls the holy water of the cellar. you might deduce that from the magnificent cellars of the mitre inn or bulkley hall (corner of s. edward's street) and above all from those of the old vintnery. for the houses north of the town hall have some splendid cellars, which connect with another under the street, and so with others under the first house on the west side of s. aldgate's, the famous old swindlestock (siren or mermaid inn). these are good specimens of early fifteenth century vaults. it is supposed that when these cellars were dug, the earth was thrown out into the street and there remained in the usual mediæval way. this, it is maintained, accounts for the hill at carfax. certainly the earliest roadway at carfax is traceable at the unexpected depth of eleven feet seven inches below the present high road, which is some three and a half feet below what it should be according to the average one foot per hundred years observed by most mediæval towns as their rate of deposit. [ ] wycliffe, we know, appeared before parliament, and there is a writ of edward i. requiring the chancellor to send "quattuor vel quinque de discretioribus et in jure scripto magis expertes universitatis" to parliament. [ ] "universitas est plurium corporum collectio inter se distantium uno nomine specialiter eis deputata" is the well-known definition of hugolinus. the term "studium generale" or "studium universale" came into use, so far as documents are any guide, in the middle of the thirteenth century (denifle). earlier, and more usually however, the word "studium" was used to describe a place where a collection of schools had been established. the epithet "generale" was used, apparently, to distinguish the merely local schools of charlemagne from those where foreign students were permitted and even encouraged to come, as they were, for instance, at naples by frederick ii. so that a university or seat of general study was a place whither students came from every quarter for every kind of knowledge. [ ] this term faculty, which originally signified the capacity (facultas) to teach a particular subject, came to be applied technically to the subject itself or to the authorised teachers of it viewed collectively. a university might include one or all of the "faculties" of theology, law, medicine and the liberal arts, although naturally enough each of the chief universities had its own particular department of excellence. a complete course of instruction in the seven liberal arts, enumerated in the old line "lingua, tropus, ratio, numerus, tonus, angulus, astra," was intended as a preparation for the study of theology--the main business of oxford as of paris university. the arts were divided into two parts, the first including the three easier or "trivial" subjects--grammar, rhetoric and logic; the second the remaining four--arithmetic, geometry, music and astronomy. [ ] the example of william of durham as the first englishman to bequeath funds to enable the secular clergy to study theology was soon followed by others. william hoyland, one of the bedels of the university, left his estate to the university, and ( ) walter gray, archbishop of york, also bequeathed his property to it. [ ] a portrait of dr radcliffe, by sir godfrey kneller, hangs over the doorway. the building was used at first to house works on natural history, physical science and medicine, for it was radcliffe's object to encourage these studies. the library was therefore known as the physic library. this has been removed to the university museum, and the camera, or "the radcliffe" as it is familiarly called, is now used as a reading-room in connection with the bodleian. it is open for the use of students daily from ten to ten. visitors to oxford are recommended to climb to the roof and obtain the magnificent panoramic view of the city and neighbourhood which it commands. [ ] worcester street--stockwell street (stoke-well, the well which afterwards rejoiced in the name of plato's, as opposed to aristotle's well, half a mile off). east of the well was the rough land known till quite recently as broken hayes. [ ] it was enacted ( ) that the regents in two faculties, with a majority of the non-regents, should have the power to make a permanent statute binding on the whole university. this system was calculated to drown the friars. it was confirmed by the arbitrators ( ), who ordered, however, that the majority should consist of three faculties instead of two, of which the faculty of arts must be one. [ ] founded in by simon islip, archbishop of canterbury, to be a nursery for "that famous college of christ church in canterbury." the doric gateway--canterbury gate--which leads from merton street into the canterbury quad. of christ church, in which mr gladstone once had rooms, recalls the name of this benedictine foundation. the old buildings were removed in ; the present gateway was designed by wyatt, chiefly at the expense of dr robinson, archbishop of armagh. [ ] "wycliffe, and movements for reform." poole. [ ] called after the "famous postern gate" (twirl-gate), pulled down in . [ ] pennilesse bench. this was a row of stalls and seats erected outside the church for the convenience of the market folk. a church, in mediæval days, was always the centre of commerce; stalls and even dwellings were frequently built on to the outside walls of a famous fane. visitors to nuremberg will remember the bratwurstglöcklein there. ("story of nuremberg," p. .) [ ] vid. _quarterly review_, jan. . [ ] two m.a.'s who were taking part in the final exercise for their degree were chosen, one by each proctor, to make a latin speech, one on the saturday of the act, the other on the monday. these speeches were supposed to be humorous and were more often merely exhibitions of scurrilous buffoonery. [ ] see professor case's admirable "enquiry concerning the pinnacled steeple of the university church." [ ] the present ones ( ) are a compromise, and repeat the fault. [ ] "when that is done," hearne adds, "they knock at all the middle chambers where most of the seniors lodge, of whom they demand crowns apiece, which is readily given, then they go with twenty or thirty torches upon the leads of the college, where they sing their song as before. this ended they go into their common rooms and make themselves merry with what wine every one has a mind to." according to tradition, a mallard was found in a drain when the foundations of the college were laid, and prof. burrows has ingeniously explained the origin of this tradition as arising from the discovery of a seal with the impression of a griffin, _malardi clerici_, when a drain was being dug. [ ] old dr kettell of trinity used to carry a pair of scissors in his muff, and snip off the long locks of his scholars with these, or with a bread knife on the buttery hatch. [ ] his pastoral staff of silver gilt, adorned with fine enamels, survives, and is carried before the bishop of winchester whenever he comes to visit the college. a good portrait of the founder hangs in the warden's lodgings. [ ] this is the old name (cattorum vicus) of the street which has now been made over to s. catherine. a similar instance of the "genteel" tendency to eschew monosyllables and not to call things by their proper names is afforded by the attempts to call hell passage, s. helen's. this is not due to a love of saints, but to the "refinement" of the middle classes, who prefer white sugar to brown. in the middle ages men called a spade a spade. the names of the old streets in london or paris would set a modern reader's hair on end. but they described the streets. at oxford the quakers ( ) first settled in new inn hall street, but it was then known as the lane of the seven deadly sins. [ ] it was after this patroness of learning that lady margaret's hall was called. it was founded at the same time as somerville hall (opened , woodstock road) as a seminary for the higher education of women. lady margaret's hall and s. hugh's hall are in norham gardens. the latter, like s. hilda's (the other side of magdalen bridge), is also for female students, who have been granted the privilege of attending university lectures and of being examined by the university examiners. [ ] _cf._ "magdalen college." h. a. wilson. [ ] among the accounts of the vice-chancellor is found the following item: "in wine & marmalade at the great disputations xd." & again, "in wine to the doctors of cambridge s." [ ] in stakes and ashes, however, were found also immediately opposite the tower gateway of balliol, and this spot was marked in the eighteenth century as the site of the martyrdom. another view is that the site was, as indicated by wood, rather on the brink of the ditch, near the bishop's bastion, behind the houses south of broad street. there were possibly two sites. i do not think that there is anything to show that latimer and ridley were burned on exactly the same spot as cranmer. if cranmer died opposite the college gateway, the site marked, but more probably the third suggested site, near the bishop's bastion, may be that where ridley and latimer perished. [ ] the door of the bishops' hole is preserved in s. mary magdalen church. [ ] most of the pictures and works of art have been transferred to the university galleries, opposite the randolph hotel (beaumont street); the natural science collections, including the great anthropological collection of general pitt rivers, to the science museum in the parks ( ). [ ] "the crown piece struck at oxford in has on the reverse, relig. prot. leg. ang. or ang. liber. par, in conformity with charles' declaration that he would 'preserve the protestant religion, the known laws of the land, and the just privileges and freedom of parliament.' but the coin peculiarly called the oxford crown, beautifully executed by rawlins in , has underneath the king's horse a view of oxford" (boase). [ ] on this occasion lady castlemaine lodged in the rooms of dr gardiner, who built the fountain afterwards known as mercury in tom quad, from the statue set up there by dr radcliffe. [ ] terræ filius, . [ ] see the ruskin art school in the art museum with the collection of turner's drawings and water colours. * * * * * typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber: facade=> façade {pg } anyrate=> any rate {pg } rewly=> rewley {pg , } succeeeding=> succeeeding {pg } fomerly=> formerly {pg } wherin=> wherein {pg } by a a kind=> by a kind {pg } generously made available by the internet archive/american libraries.) shelley at oxford shelley at oxford by thomas jefferson hogg with an introduction by r. a. streatfeild methuen & co. essex street w.c. london introduction thomas jefferson hogg's account of shelley's career at oxford first appeared in the form of a series of articles contributed to the _new monthly magazine_ in and . it was afterwards incorporated into his _life of shelley_, which was published in . it is by common consent the most life-like portrait of the poet left by any of his contemporaries. "hogg," said trelawny, "has painted shelley exactly as i knew him," and mary shelley, referring to hogg's articles in her edition of shelley's poems, bore witness to the fidelity with which her husband's character had been delineated. in later times everyone who has written about shelley has drawn upon hogg more or less freely, for he is practically the only authority upon shelley's six months at oxford. yet, save in the extracts that appear in various biographies of the poet, this remarkable work is little known. hogg's fragmentary _life of shelley_ was discredited by the plainly-expressed disapproval of the shelley family and has never been reprinted. but the inaccuracies, to call them by no harsher term, that disfigure hogg's later production do not affect the value of his earlier narrative, the substantial truth of which has never been impugned. in the _new monthly magazine_ was edited by the first lord lytton (at that time edward lytton bulwer), to whom hogg was introduced by mrs shelley. hogg complained bitterly of the way in which his manuscript was treated. "to write articles in a magazine or a review," he observed in the preface to his _life of shelley_, "is to walk in leading-strings. however, i submitted to the requirements and restraints of bibliopolar discipline, being content to speak of my young fellow-collegian, not exactly as i would, but as i might. i struggled at first, and feebly, for full liberty of speech, for a larger license of commendation and admiration, for entire freedom of the press without censorship." bulwer, however, was inexorable, and it is owing, no doubt, to his salutary influence that the style of hogg's account of shelley's oxford days is so far superior to that of his later compilation. hogg, in fact, tacitly admitted the value of bulwer's emendations by reprinting the articles in question in his biography of shelley word for word as they appeared in the _new monthly magazine_, not in the form in which they originally left his pen. hogg himself was unquestionably a man of remarkable powers, though his present fame depends almost entirely upon his connection with shelley. he was born in , being the eldest son of john hogg, a gentleman of old family and strong tory opinions, who lived at norton in the county of durham. he was educated at durham grammar school, and entered university college, oxford, in january , a short time before shelley. the account of his meeting with shelley and of their intimacy down to the day of their expulsion is told in these pages. on the strength of a remark of trelawny's it has often been repeated that hogg was a hard-headed man of the world who despised literature, "he thought it all nonsense and barely tolerated shakespeare." such is not the impression that a reader of these pages will retain, nor, i think, will he be inclined to echo the opinion pronounced by another critic that hogg regarded shelley with a kind of amused disdain. on the contrary, it is plain that hogg entertained for shelley a sincere regard and admiration, and although himself a man of temperament directly opposed to that usually described as poetical, he was fully capable of appreciating the transcendent qualities of his friend's genius. there is little to add to the tale of hogg's and shelley's oxford life as told in the following narrative, but further details as to their expulsion and the causes that led to it may be read in professor dowden's biography of the poet. after leaving oxford, hogg established himself at york, where he was articled to a conveyancer. there he was visited by shelley and his young wife, harriet westbrook, in the course of their wanderings. for the latter hogg conceived a violent passion, and during a brief absence of shelley's assailed her with the most unworthy proposals, which she communicated to her husband on his return. after a painful interview shelley forgave his friend, but left york with his wife abruptly for keswick. letters passed between hogg and shelley, hogg at first demanding harriet's forgiveness under a threat of suicide and subsequently challenging shelley to a duel. one of shelley's replies, characteristically noble in sentiment, was printed by hogg with cynical effrontery in his biography of the poet many years later as a "fragment of a novel." after these incidents there was no intercourse between the two until, in october , the shelleys arrived in london, whither hogg had moved. from that time until shelley's final departure from england in his connection with hogg was resumed with much of its old intimacy. in the year hogg produced a work of fiction, _the memoirs of prince alexy haimatoff_, said to be translated from the original latin mss. under the immediate inspection of the prince, by john brown, esq. the tale, which is for the most part told in stilted and extravagant language, can hardly be called amusing, but the discussions upon liberty which are a feature of it appear to be an echo of shelley's conversation, and the hero himself may possibly be intended as a portrait of the poet. certainly there are points in the prince's description of himself which seem to be borrowed from shelley's physiognomy. "my complexion was a clear brown, rather inclining to yellow; my hair a deep and bright black; my eyes dark and strongly expressive of pride and anger,... my hands very small, and my head remarkable for its roundness and diminutive size." it would be interesting to trace in the other characters the portraits of various members of hogg's circle. mr garnett identifies gothon as dr lind, the eton tutor whose sympathy and encouragement did much to alleviate the misery of shelley's school-days. the fair rosalie ought to be harriet, and certain features of her character recall that unhappy damsel, but rosalie disliked reading and thought aristotle an "egregious trifler," whereas harriet's taste in literature was of an extreme seriousness, and her partiality for reading works of a moral tendency to her companions in season and out of season was one of the least engaging features of her character. shelley reviewed _the memoirs of prince alexy haimatoff_ in the _critical review_ of december , discussing the talents of the author in terms of glowing eulogy, though he found fault with his views on the subject of sexual relations. soon after his york experiences hogg had entered at the middle temple and he was called to the bar in . he was not successful as a barrister, lacking the quickness and ready eloquence that command success. in or about the year hogg married jane, the widow of edward ellerker williams, who had shared shelley's fate three years previously. it is said that mrs williams insisted upon hogg's preparing himself for the union, or perhaps we should rather say, proving his devotion, by a course of foreign travel. hogg undertook the ordeal, voluntarily depriving himself of three things, each of which, to use his own words, "daily habit had taught me to consider a prime necessary of life--law, greek, and an english newspaper." in he published the record of his tour in two volumes, entitled _two hundred and nine days; or, the journal of a traveller on the continent_, which, so far from illustrating the anguish of hope deferred, is a storehouse of shrewd and cynical observation. in hogg was appointed one of the municipal corporation commissioners for england and wales, and for many years he acted as revising barrister for northumberland, berwick and the northern boroughs. about he was commissioned by the shelley family to write the poet's biography and was furnished with the necessary papers. in he produced the two extant volumes, which proved so little satisfactory to shelley's representatives that the materials for the continuation of his task were withdrawn and the work interrupted, never to be resumed. hogg died in . he was a man of varied culture; in knowledge of greek few scholars of his time surpassed him, and he was well read in german, french, italian and spanish. he was a fair botanist, and rejoiced to think that he was born upon the anniversary of the birth of linnæus, for whose concise and simple style he professed a great admiration. nevertheless it is chiefly as the friend and biographer of shelley that he interests the present generation, and the re-publication of his account of the poet's oxford experiences can scarcely fail to win him new admirers. r. a. streatfeild shelley at oxford chapter i what is the greatest disappointment in life? the question has often been asked. in a perfect life--that is to say, in a long course of various disappointments, when the collector has completed the entire set and series, which should he pronounce to be the greatest? what is the greatest disappointment of all? the question has often been asked, and it has received very different answers. some have said matrimony; others, the accession of an inheritance that had long been anxiously anticipated; others, the attainment of honours; others, the deliverance from an ancient and intolerable nuisance, since a new and more grievous one speedily succeeded to the old. many solutions have been proposed, and each has been ingeniously supported. at a very early age i had formed a splendid picture of the glories of our two universities. my father took pleasure in describing his academical career. i listened to him with great delight, and many circumstances gave additional force to these first impressions. the clergy--and in the country they make one's principal guests--always spoke of these establishments with deep reverence, and of their academical days as the happiest of their lives. when i went to school, my prejudices were strengthened; for the master noticed all deficiencies in learning as being unfit, and every remarkable proficiency as being fit, for the university. such expressions marked the utmost limits of blame and of praise. whenever any of the elder boys were translated to college--and several went thither from our school every year--the transmission was accompanied with a certain awe. i had always contemplated my own removal with the like feeling, and as the period approached, i anticipated it with a reverent impatience. the appointed day at last arrived, and i set out with a schoolfellow, about to enter the same career, and his father. the latter was a dutiful and a most grateful son of _alma mater_; and the conversation of this estimable man, during our long journey, fanned the flame of my young ardour. such, indeed, had been the effect of his discourse for many years; and as he possessed a complete collection of the oxford almanacks, and it had been a great and frequent gratification to contemplate the engravings at the top of the annual sheets when i visited his quiet vicarage, i was already familiar with the aspect of the noble buildings that adorn that famous city. after travelling for several days we reached the last stage, and soon afterwards approached the point whence, i was told, we might discern the first glimpse of the metropolis of learning. i strained my eyes to catch a view of that land of promise, for which i had so eagerly longed. the summits of towers and spires and domes appeared afar and faintly; then the prospect was obstructed. by degrees it opened upon us again, and we saw the tall trees that shaded the colleges. at three o'clock on a fine autumnal afternoon we entered the streets of oxford. although the weather was cold we had let down all the windows of our post-chaise, and i sat forward, devouring every object with greedy eyes. members of the university, of different ages and ranks, were gliding through the quiet streets of the venerable city in academic costume. we devoted two or three days to the careful examination of the various objects of interest that oxford contains. the eye was gratified, for the external appearance of the university even surpassed the bright picture which my youthful imagination had painted. the outside was always admirable; it was far otherwise with the inside. it is essential to the greatness of a disappointment that the previous expectation should have been great. nothing could exceed my young anticipations--nothing could be more complete than their overthrow. it would be impossible to describe my feelings without speaking harshly and irreverently of the venerable university. on this subject, then, i will only confess my disappointment, and discreetly be silent as to its causes. whatever those causes, i grew, at least, and i own it cheerfully, soon pleased with oxford, on the whole; pleased with the beauty of the city and its gentle river, and the pleasantness of the surrounding country. although no great facilities were afforded to the student, there were the same opportunities of _solitary_ study as in other places. all the irksome restraints of school were removed, and those of the university are few and trifling. our fare was good, although not so good, perhaps, as it ought to have been, in return for the enormous cost; and i liked the few companions with whom i most commonly mixed. i continued to lead a life of tranquil and studious and somewhat melancholy contentment until the long vacation, which i spent with my family; and, when it expired, i returned to the university. at the commencement of michaelmas term--that is, at the end of october, in the year , i happened one day to sit next to a freshman at dinner. it was his first appearance in hall. his figure was slight, and his aspect remarkably youthful, even at our table, where all were very young. he seemed thoughtful and absent. he ate little, and had no acquaintance with anyone. i know not how it was that we fell into conversation, for such familiarity was unusual, and, strange to say, much reserve prevailed in a society where there could not possibly be occasion for any. we have often endeavoured in vain to recollect in what manner our discourse began, and especially by what transition it passed to a subject sufficiently remote from all the associations we were able to trace. the stranger had expressed an enthusiastic admiration for poetical and imaginative works of the german school; i dissented from his criticisms. he upheld the originality of the german writings; i asserted their want of nature. "what modern literature," said he, "will you compare to theirs?" i named the italian. this roused all his impetuosity; and few, as i soon discovered, were more impetuous in argumentative conversation. so eager was our dispute that, when the servants came in to clear the tables, we were not aware that we had been left alone. i remarked that it was time to quit the hall, and i invited the stranger to finish the discussion at my rooms. he eagerly assented. he lost the thread of his discourse in the transit, and the whole of his enthusiasm in the cause of germany; for, as soon as he arrived at my rooms, and whilst i was lighting the candles, he said calmly, and to my great surprise, that he was not qualified to maintain such a discussion, for he was alike ignorant of italian and german, and had only read the works of the germans, in translations, and but little of italian poetry, even at second hand. for my part, i confessed, with an equal ingenuousness, that i knew nothing of german, and but little of italian; that i had spoken only through others, and, like him, had hitherto seen by the glimmering light of translations. it is upon such scanty data that young men reason; upon such slender materials do they build up their opinions. it may be urged, however, that if they did not discourse freely with each other upon insufficient information--for such alone can be acquired in the pleasant morning of life, and until they educate themselves--they would be constrained to observe a perpetual silence, and to forego the numerous advantages that flow from frequent and liberal discussion. i inquired of the vivacious stranger, as we sat over our wine and dessert, how long he had been at oxford, and how he liked it? he answered my questions with a certain impatience, and, resuming the subject of our discussion, he remarked that, "whether the literature of germany or of italy be the more original, or in a purer and more accurate taste, is of little importance, for polite letters are but vain trifling; the study of languages, not only of the modern tongues, but of latin and greek also, is merely the study of words and phrases, of the names of things; it matters not how they are called. it is surely far better to investigate things themselves." i inquired, a little bewildered, how this was to be effected? he answered, "through the physical sciences, and especially through chemistry;" and, raising his voice, his face flushing as he spoke, he discoursed with a degree of animation, that far outshone his zeal in defence of the germans, of chemistry and chemical analysis. concerning that science, then so popular, i had merely a scanty and vulgar knowledge, gathered from elementary books, and the ordinary experiments of popular lecturers. i listened, therefore, in silence to his eloquent disquisition, interposing a few brief questions only, and at long intervals, as to the extent of his own studies and manipulations. as i felt, in truth, but a slight interest in the subject of his conversation, i had leisure to examine, and, i may add, to admire, the appearance of my very extraordinary guest. it was a sum of many contradictions. his figure was slight and fragile, and yet his bones and joints were large and strong. he was tall, but he stooped so much that he seemed of a low stature. his clothes were expensive, and made according to the most approved mode of the day, but they were tumbled, rumpled, unbrushed. his gestures were abrupt, and sometimes violent, occasionally even awkward, yet more frequently gentle and graceful. his complexion was delicate and almost feminine, of the purest red and white; yet he was tanned and freckled by exposure to the sun, having passed the autumn, as he said, in shooting. his features, his whole face, and particularly his head, were, in fact, unusually small; yet the last _appeared_ of a remarkable bulk, for his hair was long and bushy, and in fits of absence, and in the agonies (if i may use the word) of anxious thought, he often rubbed it fiercely with his hands, or passed his fingers quickly through his locks unconsciously, so that it was singularly wild and rough. in times when it was the mode to imitate stage-coachmen as closely as possible in costume, and when the hair was invariably cropped, like that of our soldiers, this eccentricity was very striking. his features were not symmetrical (the mouth, perhaps, excepted), yet was the effect of the whole extremely powerful. they breathed an animation, a fire, an enthusiasm, a vivid and preternatural intelligence, that i never met with in any other countenance. nor was the moral expression less beautiful than the intellectual; for there was a softness, a delicacy, a gentleness, and especially (though this will surprise many) that air of profound religious veneration that characterises the best works, and chiefly the frescoes (and into these they infused their whole souls) of the great masters of florence and of rome. i recognised the very peculiar expression in these wonderful productions long afterwards, and with a satisfaction mingled with much sorrow, for it was after the decease of him in whose countenance i had first observed it. i admired the enthusiasm of my new acquaintance, his ardour in the cause of science and his thirst for knowledge. i seemed to have found in him all those intellectual qualities which i had vainly expected to meet with in a university. but there was one physical blemish that threatened to neutralise all his excellence. "this is a fine, clever fellow!" i said to myself, "but i can never bear his society; i shall never be able to endure his voice; it would kill me. what a pity it is!" i am very sensible of imperfections, and especially of painful sounds, and the voice of the stranger was excruciating. it was intolerably shrill, harsh and discordant; of the most cruel intension. it was perpetual, and without any remission; it excoriated the ears. he continued to discourse on chemistry, sometimes sitting, sometimes standing before the fire, and sometimes pacing about the room; and when one of the innumerable clocks, that speak in various notes during the day and the night at oxford, proclaimed a quarter to seven, he said suddenly that he must go to a lecture on mineralogy, and declared enthusiastically that he expected to derive much pleasure and instruction from it. i am ashamed to own that the cruel voice made me hesitate for a moment; but it was impossible to omit so indispensable a civility--i invited him to return to tea. he gladly assented, promised that he would not be absent long, snatched his hat, hurried out of the room, and i heard his footsteps, as he ran through the silent quadrangle and afterwards along high street. an hour soon elapsed, whilst the table was cleared and the tea was made, and i again heard the footsteps of one running quickly. my guest suddenly burst into the room, threw down his cap, and as he stood shivering and chafing his hands over the fire, he declared how much he had been disappointed in the lecture. few persons attended; it was dull and languid, and he was resolved never to go to another. "i went away, indeed," he added, with an arch look, and in a shrill whisper, coming close to me as he spoke--"i went away, indeed, before the lecture was finished. i stole away, for it was so stupid, and i was so cold that my teeth chattered. the professor saw me, and appeared to be displeased. i thought i could have got out without being observed, but i struck my knee against a bench and made a noise, and he looked at me. i am determined that he shall never see me again." "what did the man talk about?" "about stones! about stones!" he answered, with a downcast look and in a melancholy tone, as if about to say something excessively profound. "about stones! stones, stones, stones!--nothing but stones!--and so drily. it was wonderfully tiresome, and stones are not interesting things in themselves!" we took tea, and soon afterwards had supper, as was usual. he discoursed after supper with as much warmth as before of the wonders of chemistry; of the encouragement that napoleon afforded to that most important science; of the french chemists and their glorious discoveries, and of the happiness of visiting paris and sharing in their fame and their experiments. the voice, however, seemed to me more cruel than ever. he spoke, likewise, of his own labours and of his apparatus, and starting up suddenly after supper, he proposed that i should go instantly with him to see the galvanic trough. i looked at my watch, and observed that it was too late; that the fire would be out, and the night was cold. he resumed his seat, saying that i might come on the morrow early, to breakfast, immediately after chapel. he continued to declaim in his rapturous strain, asserting that chemistry was, in truth, the only science that deserved to be studied. i suggested doubts. i ventured to question the pre-eminence of the science, and even to hesitate in admitting its utility. he described in glowing language some discoveries that had lately been made; but the enthusiastic chemist candidly allowed that they were rather brilliant than useful, asserting, however, that they would soon be applied to purposes of solid advantage. "is not the time of by far the larger proportion of the human species," he inquired, with his fervid manner and in his piercing tones, "wholly consumed in severe labour? and is not this devotion of our race--of the whole of our race, i may say (for those who, like ourselves, are indulged with an exemption from the hard lot are so few in comparison with the rest, that they scarcely deserve to be taken into account)--absolutely necessary to procure subsistence, so that men have no leisure for recreation or the high improvement of the mind? yet this incessant toil is still inadequate to procure an abundant supply of the common necessaries of life. some are doomed actually to want them, and many are compelled to be content with an insufficient provision. we know little of the peculiar nature of those substances which are proper for the nourishment of animals; we are ignorant of the qualities that make them fit for this end. analysis has advanced so rapidly of late that we may confidently anticipate that we shall soon discover wherein their aptitude really consists; having ascertained the cause, we shall next be able to command it, and to produce at our pleasure the desired effects. it is easy, even in our present state of ignorance, to reduce our ordinary food to carbon, or to lime; a moderate advancement in chemical science will speedily enable us, we may hope, to create, with equal facility, food from substances that appear at present to be as ill adapted to sustain us. what is the cause of the remarkable fertility of some lands, and of the hopeless sterility of others? a spadeful of the most productive soil does not to the eye differ much from the same quantity taken from the most barren. the real difference is probably very slight; by chemical agency the philosopher may work a total change, and may transmute an unfruitful region into a land of exuberant plenty. water, like the atmospheric air, is compounded of certain gases; in the progress of scientific discovery a simple and sure method of manufacturing the useful fluid, in every situation and in any quantity, may be detected. the arid deserts of africa may then be refreshed by a copious supply and may be transformed at once into rich meadows and vast fields of maize and rice. the generation of heat is a mystery, but enough of the theory of caloric has already been developed to induce us to acquiesce in the notion that it will hereafter, and perhaps at no very distant period, be possible to produce heat at will, and to warm the most ungenial climates as readily as we now raise the temperature of our apartments to whatever degree we may deem agreeable or salutary. if, however, it be too much to anticipate that we shall ever become sufficiently skilful to command such a prodigious supply of heat, we may expect, without the fear of disappointment, soon to understand its nature and the causes of combustion, so far at least, as to provide ourselves cheaply with a fund of heat that will supersede our costly and inconvenient fuel, and will suffice to warm our habitations, for culinary purposes and for the various demands of the mechanical arts. we could not determine without actual experiment whether an unknown substance were combustible; when we shall have thoroughly investigated the properties of fire, it may be that we shall be qualified to communicate to clay, to stones, and to water itself, a chemical recomposition that will render them as inflammable as wood, coals and oil; for the difference of structure is minute and invisible, and the power of feeding flame may, perhaps, be easily added to any substance, or taken away from it. what a comfort would it be to the poor at all times, and especially at this season, if we were capable of solving this problem alone, if we could furnish them with a competent supply of heat! these speculations may appear wild, and it may seem improbable that they will ever be realised to persons who have not extended their views of what is practicable by closely watching science in its course onward; but there are many mysterious powers, many irresistible agents with the existence and with some of the phenomena of which all are acquainted. what a mighty instrument would electricity be in the hands of him who knew how to wield it, in what manner to direct its omnipotent energies, and we may command an indefinite quantity of the fluid. by means of electrical kites we may draw down the lightning from heaven! what a terrible organ would the supernal shock prove, if we were able to guide it; how many of the secrets of nature would such a stupendous force unlock. the galvanic battery is a new engine; it has been used hitherto to an insignificant extent, yet has it wrought wonders already; what will not an extraordinary combination of troughs, of colossal magnitude, a well-arranged system of hundreds of metallic plates, effect? the balloon has not yet received the perfection of which it is surely capable; the art of navigating the air is in its first and most helpless infancy; the aërial mariner still swims on bladders, and has not mounted even the rude raft; if we weigh this invention, curious as it is, with some of the subjects i have mentioned, it will seem trifling, no doubt--a mere toy, a feather in comparison with the splendid anticipations of the philosophical chemist; yet it ought not altogether to be contemned. it promises prodigious facilities for locomotion, and will enable us to traverse vast tracts with ease and rapidity, and to explore unknown countries without difficulty. why are we still so ignorant of the interior of africa?--why do we not despatch intrepid aëronauts to cross it in every direction, and to survey the whole peninsula in a few weeks? the shadow of the first balloon, which a vertical sun would project precisely underneath it, as it glided silently over that hitherto unhappy country, would virtually emancipate every slave, and would annihilate slavery for ever." with such fervour did the slender, beardless stranger speculate concerning the march of physical science; his speculations were as wild as the experience of twenty-one years has shown them to be; but the zealous earnestness for the augmentation of knowledge, and the glowing philanthropy and boundless benevolence that marked them, and beamed forth in the whole deportment of that extraordinary boy, are not less astonishing than they would have been if the whole of his glorious anticipations had been prophetic; for these high qualities at least i have never found a parallel. when he had ceased to predict the coming honours of chemistry, and to promise the rich harvest of benefits it was soon to yield, i suggested that, although its results were splendid, yet for those who could not hope to make discoveries themselves, it did not afford so valuable a course of mental discipline as the moral sciences; moreover, that, if chemists asserted that their science alone deserved to be cultivated, the mathematicians made the same assertion, and with equal confidence, respecting their studies; but that i was not sufficiently advanced myself in mathematics to be able to judge how far it was well founded. he declared that he knew nothing of mathematics, and treated the notion of their paramount importance with contempt. "what do you say of metaphysics?" i continued; "is that science, too, the study of words only?" "ay, metaphysics," he said, in a solemn tone, and with a mysterious air, "that is a noble study indeed! if it were possible to make any discoveries there, they would be more valuable than anything the chemists have done, or could do; they would disclose the analysis of mind, and not of mere matter!" then, rising from his chair, he paced slowly about the room, with prodigious strides, and discoursed of souls with still greater animation and vehemence than he had displayed in treating of gases--of a future state--and especially of a former state--of pre-existence, obscured for a time through the suspension of consciousness--of personal identity, and also of ethical philosophy, in a deep and earnest tone of elevated morality, until he suddenly remarked that the fire was nearly out, and the candles were glimmering in their sockets, when he hastily apologised for remaining so long. i promised to visit the chemist in his laboratory, the alchemist in his study, the wizard in his cave, not at breakfast on that day, for it was already one, but in twelve hours--one hour after noon--and to hear some of the secrets of nature; and for that purpose he told me his name, and described the situation of his rooms. i lighted him downstairs as well as i could with the stump of a candle which had dissolved itself into a lump, and i soon heard him running through the quiet quadrangle in the still night. that sound became afterwards so familiar to my ear, that i still seem to hear shelley's hasty steps. chapter ii i trust, or i should perhaps rather say i hope, that i was as much struck by the conversation, the aspect, and the deportment of my new acquaintance, as entirely convinced of the value of the acquisition i had just made, and as deeply impressed with surprise and admiration as became a young student not insensible of excellence, to whom a character so extraordinary, and indeed almost preternatural, had been suddenly unfolded. during his animated and eloquent discourses i felt a due reverence for his zeal and talent, but the human mind is capable of a certain amount of attention only. i had listened and discussed for seven or eight hours, and my spirits were totally exhausted. i went to bed as soon as shelley had quitted my rooms, and fell instantly into a profound sleep; and i shook off with a painful effort, at the accustomed signal, the complete oblivion which then appeared to have been but momentary. many of the wholesome usages of antiquity had ceased at oxford; that of early rising, however, still lingered. as soon as i got up, i applied myself sedulously to my academical duties and my accustomed studies. the power of habitual occupation is great and engrossing, and it is possible that my mind had not yet fully recovered from the agreeable fatigue of the preceding evening, for i had entirely forgotten my engagement, nor did the thought of my young guest once cross my fancy. it was strange that a person so remarkable and attractive should have thus disappeared for several hours from my memory; but such in truth was the fact, although i am unable to account for it in a satisfactory manner. at one o'clock i put away my books and papers, and prepared myself for my daily walk; the weather was frosty, with fog, and whilst i lingered over the fire with that reluctance to venture forth into the cold air common to those who have chilled themselves by protracted sedentary pursuits, the recollection of the scenes of yesterday flashed suddenly and vividly across my mind, and i quickly repaired to a spot that i may perhaps venture to predict many of our posterity will hereafter reverently visit--to the rooms in the corner next the hall of the principal quadrangle of university college. they are on the first floor, and on the right of the entrance, but by reason of the turn in the stairs, when you reach them they will be upon your left hand. i remember the direction given at parting, and i soon found the door. it stood ajar. i tapped gently, and the discordant voice cried shrilly,-- "come in!" it was now nearly two. i began to apologise for my delay, but i was interrupted by a loud exclamation of surprise. "what! is it one? i had no notion it was so late. i thought it was about ten or eleven." "it is on the stroke of two, sir," said the scout, who was engaged in the vain attempt of setting the apartment in order. "of two!" shelley cried with increased wonder, and presently the clock struck, and the servant noticed it, retired and shut the door. i perceived at once that the young chemist took no note of time. he measured duration, not by minutes and hours, like watchmakers and their customers, but by the successive trains of ideas and sensations; consequently, if there was a virtue of which he was utterly incapable, it was that homely but pleasing and useful one--punctuality. he could not tear himself from his incessant abstractions to observe at intervals the growth and decline of the day; nor was he ever able to set apart even a small portion of his mental powers for a duty so simple as that of watching the course of the pointers on the dial. i found him cowering over the fire, his chair planted in the middle of the rug, and his feet resting upon the fender; his whole appearance was dejected. his astonishment at the unexpected lapse of time roused him. as soon as the hour of the day was ascertained he welcomed me, and seizing one of my arms with both his hands, he shook it with some force, and very cordially expressed his satisfaction at my visit. then, resuming his seat and his former posture, he gazed fixedly at the fire, and his limbs trembled and his teeth chattered with cold. i cleared the fireplace with the poker and stirred the fire, and when it blazed up, he drew back, and, looking askance towards the door, he exclaimed with a deep sigh,-- "thank god, that fellow is gone at last!" the assiduity of the scout had annoyed him, and he presently added,-- "if you had not come, he would have stayed until he had put everything in my rooms into some place where i should never have found it again!" he then complained of his health, and said that he was very unwell; but he did not appear to be affected by any disorder more serious than a slight aguish cold. i remarked the same contradiction in his rooms which i had already observed in his person and dress. they had just been papered and painted; the carpet, curtains, and furniture were quite new, and had not passed through several academical generations, after the established custom of transferring the whole of the movables to the successor on payments of thirds, that is, of two-thirds of the price last given. the general air of freshness was greatly obscured, however, by the indescribable confusion in which the various objects were mixed. notwithstanding the unwelcome exertions of the officious scout, scarcely a single article was in its proper position. books, boots, papers, shoes, philosophical instruments, clothes, pistols, linen, crockery, ammunition and phials innumerable, with money, stockings, prints, crucibles, bags and boxes were scattered on the floor and in every place, as if the young chemist, in order to analyse the mystery of creation, had endeavoured first to re-construct the primeval chaos. the tables, and especially the carpet, were already stained with large spots of various hues, which frequently proclaimed the agency of fire. an electrical machine, an air-pump, the galvanic trough, a solar microscope and large glass jars and receivers, were conspicuous amidst the mass of matter. upon the table by his side were some books lying open, several letters, a bundle of new pens and a bottle of japan ink that served as an inkstand; a piece of deal, lately part of the lid of a box, with many chips, and a handsome razor that had been used as a knife. there were bottles of soda water, sugar, pieces of lemon, and the traces of an effervescent beverage. two piles of books supported the tongs, and these upheld a small glass retort above an argand lamp. i had not been seated many minutes before the liquor in the vessel boiled over, adding fresh stains to the table, and rising in fumes with a most disagreeable odour. shelley snatched the glass quickly, and dashing it in pieces among the ashes under the grate, increased the unpleasant and penetrating effluvium. he then proceeded with much eagerness and enthusiasm to show me the various instruments, especially the electrical apparatus, turning round the handle very rapidly, so that the fierce, crackling sparks flew forth; and presently, standing upon the stool with glass feet, he begged me to work the machine until he was filled with the fluid, so that his long wild locks bristled and stood on end. afterwards he charged a powerful battery of several large jars; labouring with vast energy, and discoursing with increasing vehemence of the marvellous powers of electricity, of thunder and lightning; describing an electrical kite that he had made at home, and projecting another and an enormous one, or rather a combination of many kites, that would draw down from the sky an immense volume of electricity, the whole ammunition of a mighty thunderstorm; and this being directed to some point would there produce the most stupendous results. in these exhibitions and in such conversation the time passed away rapidly, and the hour of dinner approached. having pricked _æger_ that day, or, in other words, having caused his name to be entered as an invalid, he was not required or permitted to dine in hall, or to appear in public within the college or without the walls, until a night's rest should have restored the sick man to health. he requested me to spend the evening at his rooms; i consented, nor did i fail to attend immediately after dinner. we conversed until a late hour on miscellaneous topics. i remember that he spoke frequently of poetry, and that there was the same animation, the same glowing zeal, which had characterised his former discourses, and was so opposite to the listless languor, the monstrous indifference, if not the absolute antipathy to learning, that so strangely darkened the collegiate atmosphere. it would seem, indeed, to one who rightly considered the final cause of the institution of a university, that all the rewards, all the honours the most opulent foundation could accumulate, would be inadequate to remunerate an individual, whose thirst for knowledge was so intense, and his activity in the pursuit of it so wonderful and so unwearied. i participated in his enthusiasm, and soon forgot the shrill and unmusical voice that had at first seemed intolerable to my ear. he was, indeed, a whole university in himself to me, in respect of the stimulus and incitement which his example afforded to my love of study, and he amply atoned for the disappointment i had felt on my arrival at oxford. in one respect alone could i pretend to resemble him--in an ardent desire to gain knowledge, and, as our tastes were the same in many particulars, we immediately became, through sympathy, most intimate and altogether inseparable companions. we almost invariably passed the afternoon and evening together; at first, alternately at our respective rooms, through a certain punctiliousness, but afterwards, when we became more familiar, most frequently by far at his. sometimes one or two good and harmless men of our acquaintance were present, but we were usually alone. his rooms were preferred to mine, because there his philosophical apparatus was at hand; and at that period he was not perfectly satisfied with the condition and circumstances of his existence, unless he was able to start from his seat at any moment, and seizing the air-pump, some magnets, the electrical machine, or the bottles containing those noxious and nauseous fluids wherewith he incessantly besmeared and disfigured himself and his goods, to ascertain by actual experiment the value of some new idea that rushed into his brain. he spent much time in working by fits and starts and in an irregular manner with his instruments, and especially consumed his hours and his money in the assiduous cultivation of chemistry. we have heard that one of the most distinguished of modern discoverers was abrupt, hasty, and to appearance disorderly, in the conduct of his manipulations. the variety of the habits of great men is indeed infinite. it is impossible, therefore, to decide peremptorily as to the capabilities of individuals from their course of proceeding, yet it certainly seemed highly improbable that shelley was qualified to succeed in a science wherein a scrupulous minuteness and a mechanical accuracy are indispensable. his chemical operations seemed to an unskilful observer to promise nothing but disasters. his hands, his clothes, his books and his furniture were stained and corroded by mineral acids. more than one hole in the carpet could elucidate the ultimate phenomenon of combustion; especially a formidable aperture in the middle of the room, where the floor also had been burnt by the spontaneous ignition, caused by mixing ether with some other fluid in a crucible; and the honourable wound was speedily enlarged by rents, for the philosopher, as he hastily crossed the room in pursuit of truth, was frequently caught in it by the foot. many times a day, but always in vain, would the sedulous scout say, pointing to the scorched boards with a significant look,-- "would it not be better, sir, for us to get this place mended?" it seemed but too probable that in the rash ardour of experiment he would some day set the college on fire, or that he would blind, maim or kill himself by the explosion of combustibles. it was still more likely, indeed, that he would poison himself, for plates and glasses and every part of his tea equipage were used indiscriminately with crucibles, retorts, and recipients, to contain the most deleterious ingredients. to his infinite diversion i used always to examine every drinking vessel narrowly, and often to rinse it carefully, after that evening when we were taking tea by firelight, and my attention being attracted by the sound of something in the cup into which i was about to pour tea, i was induced to look into it. i found a seven-shilling piece partly dissolved by the _aqua regia_ in which it was immersed. although he laughed at my caution, he used to speak with horror of the consequences of having inadvertently swallowed, through a similar accident, some mineral poison--i think arsenic--at eton, which he declared had not only seriously injured his health, but that he feared he should never entirely recover from the shock it had inflicted on his constitution. it seemed improbable, notwithstanding his positive assertions, that his lively fancy exaggerated the recollection of the unpleasant and permanent taste, of the sickness and disorder of the stomach, which might arise from taking a minute portion of some poisonous substance by the like chance, for there was no vestige of a more serious and lasting injury in his youthful and healthy, although somewhat delicate aspect. i knew little of the physical sciences, and i felt, therefore, but a slight degree of interest in them. i looked upon his philosophical apparatus merely as toys and playthings, like a chess-board or a billiard table. through lack of sympathy, his zeal, which was at first so ardent, gradually cooled; and he applied himself to these pursuits, after a short time, less frequently and with less earnestness. the true value of them was often the subject of animated discussion; and i remember one evening at my own rooms, when we had sought refuge against the intense cold in the little inner apartment, or study, i referred, in the course of our debate, to a passage in xenophon's _memorabilia_, where socrates speaks in disparagement of physics. he read it several times very attentively, and more than once aloud, slowly and with emphasis, and it appeared to make a strong impression on him. notwithstanding our difference of opinion as to the importance of chemistry and on some other questions, our intimacy rapidly increased, and we soon formed the habit of passing the greater part of our time together; nor did this constant intercourse interfere with my usual studies. i never visited his rooms until one o'clock, by which hour, as i rose very early, i had not only attended the college lectures, but had read in private for several hours. i was enabled, moreover, to continue my studies afterwards in the evening, in consequence of a very remarkable peculiarity. my young and energetic friend was then overcome by extreme drowsiness, which speedily and completely vanquished him; he would sleep from two to four hours, often so soundly that his slumbers resembled a deep lethargy; he lay occasionally upon the sofa, but more commonly stretched upon the rug before a large fire, like a cat; and his little round head was exposed to such a fierce heat, that i used to wonder how he was able to bear it. sometimes i have interposed some shelter, but rarely with any permanent effect; for the sleeper usually contrived to turn himself and to roll again into the spot where the fire glowed the brightest. his torpor was generally profound, but he would sometimes discourse incoherently for a long while in his sleep. at six he would suddenly compose himself, even in the midst of a most animated narrative or of earnest discussion; and he would lie buried in entire forgetfulness, in a sweet and mighty oblivion, until ten, when he would suddenly start up, and rubbing his eyes with great violence, and passing his fingers swiftly through his long hair, would enter at once into a vehement argument, or begin to recite verses, either of his own composition or from the works of others, with a rapidity and an energy that were often quite painful. during the period of his occultation i took tea, and read or wrote without interruption. he would sometimes sleep for a shorter time, for about two hours, postponing for the like period the commencement of his retreat to the rug, and rising with tolerable punctuality at ten; and sometimes, although rarely, he was able entirely to forego the accustomed refreshment. we did not consume the whole of our time, when he was awake, in conversation; we often read apart, and more frequently together. our joint studies were occasionally interrupted by long discussions--nevertheless, i could enumerate many works, and several of them are extensive and important, which we perused completely and very carefully in this manner. at ten, when he awoke, he was always ready for his supper, which he took with a peculiar relish. after that social meal his mind was clear and penetrating, and his discourse eminently brilliant. he was unwilling to separate, but when the college clock struck two, i used to rise and retire to my room. our conversations were sometimes considerably prolonged, but they seldom terminated before that chilly hour of the early morning; nor did i feel any inconvenience from thus reducing the period of rest to scarcely five hours. a disquisition on some difficult question in the open air was not less agreeable to him than by the fireside; if the weather was fine, or rather not altogether intolerable, we used to sally forth, when we met at one. i have already pointed out several contradictions in his appearance and character. his ordinary preparation for a rural walk formed a very remarkable contrast with his mild aspect and pacific habits. he furnished himself with a pair of duelling pistols and a good store of powder and ball, and when he came to a solitary spot, he pinned a card, or fixed some other mark upon a tree or a bank, and amused himself by firing at it: he was a pretty good shot, and was much delighted at his success. he often urged me to try my hand and eye, assuring me that i was not aware of the pleasure of a good hit. one day, when he was peculiarly pressing, i took up a pistol and asked him what i should aim at? and observing a slab of wood, about as big as a hearthrug, standing against a wall, i named it as being a proper object. he said that it was much too far off; it was better to wait until we came nearer. but i answered--"i may as well fire here as anywhere," and instantly discharged my pistol. to my infinite surprise the ball struck the elm target most accurately in the very centre. shelley was delighted. he ran to the board, placed his chin close to it, gazed at the hole where the bullet was lodged, examined it attentively on all sides many times, and more than once measured the distance to the spot where i had stood. i never knew anyone so prone to admire as he was, in whom the principle of veneration was so strong. he extolled my skill, urged me repeatedly to display it again, and begged that i would give him instructions in an art in which i so much excelled. i suffered him to enjoy his wonder for a few days, and then i told him, and with difficulty persuaded him, that my success was purely accidental; for i had seldom fired a pistol before, and never with ball, but with shot only, as a schoolboy, in clandestine and bloodless expeditions against blackbirds and yellowhammers. the duelling pistols were a most discordant interruption of the repose of a quiet country walk; besides, he handled them with such inconceivable carelessness, that i had perpetually reason to apprehend that, as a trifling episode in the grand and heroic work of drilling a hole through the back of a card or the front of one of his father's franks, he would shoot himself, or me, or both of us. how often have i lamented that nature, which so rarely bestows upon the world a creature endowed with such marvellous talents, ungraciously rendered the gift less precious by implanting a fatal taste for perilous recreations, and a thoughtlessness in the pursuit of them, that often caused his existence from one day to another to seem in itself miraculous. i opposed the practice of walking armed, and i at last succeeded in inducing him to leave the pistols at home, and to forbear the use of them. i prevailed, i believe, not so much by argument or persuasion, as by secretly abstracting, when he equipped himself for the field, and it was not difficult with him, the powder-flask, the flints or some other indispensable article. one day, i remember, he was grievously discomposed and seriously offended to find, on producing his pistols, after descending rapidly into a quarry, where he proposed to take a few shots, that not only had the flints been removed, but the screws and the bits of steel at the top of the cocks which hold the flints were also wanting. he determined to return to college for them--i accompanied him. i tempted him, however, by the way, to try to define anger, and to discuss the nature of that affection of the mind, to which, as the discussion waxed warm, he grew exceedingly hostile in theory, and could not be brought to admit that it could possibly be excusable in any case. in the course of conversation, moreover, he suffered himself to be insensibly turned away from his original path and purpose. i have heard that, some years after he left oxford, he resumed the practice of pistol-shooting, and attained to a very unusual degree of skill in an accomplishment so entirely incongruous with his nature. of rural excursions he was at all times fond. he loved to walk in the woods, to stroll on the banks of the thames, but especially to wander about shotover hill. there was a pond at the foot of the hill, before ascending it and on the left of the road; it was formed by the water which had filled an old quarry. whenever he was permitted to shape his course as he would, he proceeded to the edge of this pool, although the scene had no other attractions than a certain wildness and barrenness. here he would linger until dusk, gazing in silence on the water, repeating verses aloud, or earnestly discussing themes that had no connection with surrounding objects. sometimes he would raise a stone as large as he could lift, deliberately throw it into the water as far as his strength enabled him, then he would loudly exult at the splash, and would quietly watch the decreasing agitation, until the last faint ring and almost imperceptible ripple disappeared on the still surface. "such are the effects of an impulse on the air," he would say; and he complained of our ignorance of the theory of sound--that the subject was obscure and mysterious, and many of the phenomena were contradictory and inexplicable. he asserted that the science of acoustics ought to be cultivated, and that by well-devised experiments valuable discoveries would undoubtedly be made, and he related many remarkable stories connected with the subject that he had heard or read. sometimes he would busy himself in splitting slaty stones, in selecting thin and flat pieces and in giving them a round form, and when he had collected a sufficient number, he would gravely make ducks and drakes with them, counting, with the utmost glee, the number of bounds as they flew along, skimming the surface of the pond. he was a devoted worshipper of the water-nymphs, for, whenever he found a pool, or even a small puddle, he would loiter near it, and it was no easy task to get him to quit it. he had not yet learned that art from which he afterwards derived so much pleasure--the construction of paper boats. he twisted a morsel of paper into a form that a lively fancy might consider a likeness of a boat, and, committing it to the water, he anxiously watched the fortunes of the frail bark, which, if it was not soon swamped by the faint winds and miniature waves, gradually imbibed water through its porous sides, and sank. sometimes, however, the fairy vessel performed its little voyage, and reached the opposite shore of the puny ocean in safety. it is astonishing with what keen delight he engaged in this singular pursuit. it was not easy for an uninitiated spectator to bear with tolerable patience the vast delay on the brink of a wretched pond upon a bleak common and in the face of a cutting north-east wind, on returning to dinner from a long walk at sunset on a cold winter's day; nor was it easy to be so harsh as to interfere with a harmless gratification that was evidently exquisite. it was not easy, at least, to induce the shipbuilder to desist from launching his tiny fleets, so long as any timber remained in the dock-yard. i prevailed once and once only. it was one of those bitter sundays that commonly receive the new year; the sun had set, and it had almost begun to snow. i had exhorted him long in vain, with the eloquence of a frozen and famished man, to proceed. at last i said in despair--alluding to his never-ending creations, for a paper navy that was to be set afloat simultaneously lay at his feet, and he was busily constructing more, with blue and swollen hands--"shelley, there is no use in talking to you; you are the demiurgus of plato!" he instantly caught up the whole flotilla, and, bounding homeward with mighty strides, laughed aloud--laughed like a giant as he used to say. so long as his paper lasted, he remained riveted to the spot, fascinated by this peculiar amusement. all waste paper was rapidly consumed, then the covers of letters; next, letters of little value; the most precious contributions of the most esteemed correspondent, although eyed wistfully many times and often returned to the pocket, were sure to be sent at last in pursuit of the former squadrons. of the portable volumes which were the companions of his rambles, and he seldom went out without a book, the fly-leaves were commonly wanting--he had applied them as our ancestor noah applied gopher wood. but learning was so sacred in his eyes, that he never trespassed farther upon the integrity of the copy; the work itself was always respected. it has been said that he once found himself on the north bank of the serpentine river without the materials for indulging those inclinations which the sight of water invariably inspired, for he had exhausted his supplies on the round pond in kensington gardens. not a single scrap of paper could be found, save only a bank-post bill for fifty pounds. he hesitated long, but yielded at last. he twisted it into a boat with the extreme refinement of his skill, and committed it with the utmost dexterity to fortune, watching its progress, if possible, with a still more intense anxiety than usual. fortune often favours those who frankly and fully trust her; the north-east wind gently wafted the costly skiff to the south bank, where, during the latter part of the voyage, the venturous owner had waited its arrival with patient solicitude. the story, of course, is a mythic fable, but it aptly pourtrays the dominion of a singular and most unaccountable passion over the mind of an enthusiast. but to return to oxford. shelley disliked exceedingly all college meetings, and especially one which was the most popular with others--the public dinner in the hall. he used often to absent himself, and he was greatly delighted whenever i agreed to partake with him in a slight luncheon at one, to take a long walk into the country and to return after dark to tea and supper in his rooms. on one of these expeditions we wandered farther than usual without regarding the distance or the lapse of time; but we had no difficulty in finding our way home, for the night was clear and frosty, and the moon at the full; and most glorious was the spectacle as we approached the city of colleges, and passed through the silent streets. it was near ten when we entered our college; not only was it too late for tea, but supper was ready, the cloth laid, and the table spread. a large dish of scalloped oysters had been set within the fender to be kept hot for the famished wanderers. among the innumerable contradictions in the character and deportment of the youthful poet was a strange mixture of singular grace, which manifested itself in his actions and gestures, with an occasional awkwardness almost as remarkable. as soon as we entered the room, he placed his chair as usual directly in front of the fire, and eagerly pressed forward to warm himself, for the frost was severe and he was very sensible of cold. whilst cowering over the fire and rubbing his hands, he abruptly set both his feet at once upon the edge of the fender; it immediately flew up, threw under the grate the dish, which was broken into two pieces, and the whole of the delicious mess was mingled with the cinders and ashes, that had accumulated for several hours. it was impossible that a hungry and frozen pedestrian should restrain a strong expression of indignation, or that he should forbear, notwithstanding the exasperation of cold and hunger, from smiling and forgiving the accident at seeing the whimsical air and aspect of the offender, as he held up with the shovel the long-anticipated food, deformed by ashes, coals and cinders, with a ludicrous expression of exaggerated surprise, disappointment, and contrition. it would be easy to fill many volumes with reminiscences characteristic of my young friend, and of these the most trifling would perhaps best illustrate his innumerable peculiarities. with the discerning, trifles, although they are accounted such, have their value. a familiarity with the daily habits of shelley, and the knowledge of his demeanour in private, will greatly facilitate, and they are perhaps even essential to, the full comprehension of his views and opinions. traits that unfold an infantine simplicity--the genuine simplicity of true genius--will be slighted by those who are ignorant of the qualities that constitute greatness of soul. the philosophical observer knows well that, to have shown a mind to be original and perfectly natural, is no inconsiderable step in demonstrating that it is also great. our supper had disappeared under the grate, but we were able to silence the importunity of hunger. as the supply of cheese was scanty, shelley pretended, in order to atone for his carelessness, that he never ate it; but i refused to take more than my share, and, notwithstanding his reiterated declarations that it was offensive to his palate and hurtful to his stomach, as i was inexorable, he devoured the remainder, greedily swallowing, not merely the cheese, but the rind also, after scraping it cursorily, and with a certain tenderness. a tankard of the stout brown ale of our college aided us greatly in removing the sense of cold, and in supplying the deficiency of food, so that we turned our chairs towards the fire, and began to brew our negus as cheerfully as if the bounty of the hospitable gods had not been intercepted. we reposed ourselves after the fatigue of an unusually long walk, and silence was broken by short remarks only, and at considerable intervals, respecting the beauty of moonlight scenes, and especially of that we had just enjoyed. the serenity and clearness of the night exceeded any we had before witnessed; the light was so strong it would have been easy to read or write. "how strange was it that light, proceeding from the sun, which was at such a prodigious distance, and at that time entirely out of sight, should be reflected from the moon, and that was no trifling journey, and sent back to the earth in such abundance, and with so great force!" languid expressions of admiration dropped from our lips as we stretched our stiff and wearied limbs towards the genial warmth of a blazing fire. on a sudden shelley started from his seat, seized one of the candles, and began to walk about the room on tiptoe in profound silence, often stooping low, and evidently engaged in some mysterious search. i asked him what he wanted, but he returned no answer, and continued his whimsical and secret inquisition, which he prosecuted in the same extraordinary manner in the bedroom and the little study. it had occurred to him that a dessert had possibly been sent to his rooms whilst we were absent, and had been put away. he found the object of his pursuit at last, and produced some small dishes from the study--apples, oranges, almonds and raisins and a little cake. these he set close together at my side of the table, without speaking, but with a triumphant look, yet with the air of a penitent making restitution and reparation, and then resumed his seat. the unexpected succour was very seasonable; this light fare, a few glasses of negus, warmth, and especially rest, restored our lost vigour and our spirits. we spoke of our happy life, of universities, of what they might be, of what they were. how powerfully they might stimulate the student, how much valuable instruction they might impart. we agreed that, although the least possible benefit was conferred upon us in this respect at oxford, we were deeply indebted, nevertheless, to the great and good men of former days, who founded those glorious institutions, for devising a scheme of life, which, however deflected from its original direction, still tended to study, and especially for creating establishments that called young men together from all parts of the empire, and for endowing them with a celebrity that was able to induce so many to congregate. without such an opportunity of meeting we should never have been acquainted with each other. in so large a body there must doubtless be many at that time who were equally thankful for the occasion of the like intimacy, and in former generations how many friendships, that had endured through all the various trials of a long and eventful life, had arisen here from accidental communion, as in our case. if there was little positive encouragement, there were various negative inducements to acquire learning; there were no interruptions, no secular cares; our wants were well supplied without the slightest exertion on our part, and the exact regularity of academical existence cut off that dissipation of the hours and the thoughts which so often prevails where the daily course is not pre-arranged. the necessity of early rising was beneficial. like the pythagoreans of old, we began with the gods; the salutary attendance in chapel every morning not only compelled us to quit our bed betimes, but imposed additional duties conducive to habits of industry. it was requisite not merely to rise, but to leave our rooms, to appear in public and to remain long enough to destroy the disposition to indolence which might still linger if we were permitted to remain by the fireside. to pass some minutes in society, yet in solemn silence, is like the pythagorean initiation, and we auspicate the day happily by commencing with sacred things. i scarcely ever visited shelley before one o'clock; when i met him in the morning at chapel, he used studiously to avoid all communication, and, as soon as the doors were opened, to effect a ludicrously precipitate retreat to his rooms. "the country near oxford," he continued, as we reposed after our meagre supper, "has no pretensions to peculiar beauty, but it is quiet, and pleasant, and rural, and purely agricultural after the good old fashion. it is not only unpolluted by manufactures and commerce, but it is exempt from the desecration of the modern husbandry, of a system which accounts the farmer a manufacturer of hay and corn. i delight to wander over it." he enlarged upon the pleasure of our pedestrian excursions, and added, "i can imagine few things that would annoy me more severely than to be disturbed in our tranquil course. it would be a cruel calamity to be interrupted by some untoward accident, to be compelled to quit our calm and agreeable retreat. not only would it be a sad mortification, but a real misfortune, for if i remain here i shall study more closely and with greater advantage than i could in any other situation that i can conceive. are you not of the same opinion?" "entirely." "i regret only that the period of our residence is limited to four years. i wish they would revive, for our sake, the old term of six or seven years. if we consider how much there is for us to learn," here he paused and sighed deeply through that despondency which sometimes comes over the unwearied and zealous student, "we shall allow that the longer period would still be far too short!" i assented, and we discoursed concerning the abridgement of the ancient term of residence, and the diminution of the academical year by frequent, protracted, and most inconvenient vacations. "to quit oxford," he said, "would be still more unpleasant to you than to myself, for you aim at objects that i do not seek to compass, and you cannot fail, since you are resolved to place your success beyond the reach of chance." he enumerated with extreme rapidity, and in his enthusiastic strain, some of the benefits and comforts of a college life. "then the _oak_ is such a blessing," he exclaimed, with peculiar fervour, clasping his hands, and repeating often, "the oak is such a blessing!" slowly and in a solemn tone. "the oak alone goes far towards making this place a paradise. in what other spot in the world, surely in none that i have hitherto visited, can you say confidently, it is perfectly impossible, physically impossible, that i should be disturbed? whether a man desire solitary study, or to enjoy the society of a friend or two, he is secure against interruption. it is not so in a house, not by any means; there is not the same protection in a house, even in the best-contrived house. the servant is bound to answer the door; he must appear and give some excuse; he may betray by hesitation and confusion that he utters a falsehood; he must expose himself to be questioned; he must open the door and violate your privacy in some degree; besides, there are other doors, there are windows, at least, through which a prying eye can detect some indication that betrays the mystery. how different is it here! the bore arrives; the outer door is shut; it is black and solemn, and perfectly impenetrable, as is your secret; the doors are all alike; he can distinguish mine from yours by the geographical position only. he may knock; he may call; he may kick, if he will; he may inquire of a neighbour, but he can inform him of nothing; he can only say, the door is shut, and this he knows already. he may leave his card, that you may rejoice over it, and at your escape; he may write upon it the hour when he proposes to call again, to put you upon your guard, and that he may be quite sure of seeing the back of your door once more. when the bore meets you and says, i called at your house at such a time, you are required to explain your absence, to prove an _alibi_, in short, and perhaps to undergo a rigid cross-examination; but if he tells you, 'i called at your rooms yesterday at three, and the door was shut,' you have only to say, 'did you? was it?' and there the matter ends." "were you not charmed with your oak? did it not instantly captivate you?" "my introduction to it was somewhat unpleasant and unpropitious. the morning after my arrival i was sitting at breakfast; my scout, the arimaspian, apprehending that the singleness of his eye may impeach his character for officiousness, in order to escape the reproach of seeing half as much only as other men, is always striving to prove that he sees at least twice as far as the most sharp-sighted. after many demonstrations of superabundant activity, he inquired if i wanted anything more; i answered in the negative. he had already opened the door: 'shall i sport, sir?' he asked briskly, as he stood upon the threshold. he seemed so unlike a sporting character that i was curious to learn in what sport he proposed to indulge. i answered, 'yes, by all means,' and anxiously watched him, but, to my surprise and disappointment he instantly vanished. as soon as i had finished my breakfast, i sallied forth to survey oxford. i opened one door quickly and, not suspecting that there was a second, i struck my head against it with some violence. the blow taught me to observe that every set of rooms has two doors, and i soon learned that the outer door, which is thick and solid, is called the oak, and to shut it is termed, to sport. i derived so much benefit from my oak that i soon pardoned this slight inconvenience. it is surely the tree of knowledge." "who invented the oak?" "the inventors of the science of living in rooms or chambers--the monks." "ah! they were sly fellows. none but men who were reputed to devote themselves for many hours to prayers, to religious meditations and holy abstractions, would ever have been permitted quietly to place at pleasure such a barrier between themselves and the world. we now reap the advantage of their reputation for sanctity. i shall revere my oak more than ever, since its origin is so sacred." chapter iii the sympathies of shelley were instantaneous and powerful with those who evinced in any degree the qualities, for which he was himself so remarkable--simplicity of character, unaffected manners, genuine modesty and an honest willingness to acquire knowledge, and he sprang to meet their advances with an ingenuous eagerness which was peculiar to him; but he was suddenly and violently repelled, like the needle from the negative pole of the magnet, by any indication of pedantry, presumption or affectation. so much was he disposed to take offence at such defects, and so acutely was he sensible of them, that he was sometimes unjust, through an excessive sensitiveness, in his estimate of those who had shocked him by sins, of which he was himself utterly incapable. whatever might be the attainments, and however solid the merits of the persons filling at that time the important office of instructors in the university, they were entirely destitute of the attractions of manner; their address was sometimes repulsive, and the formal, priggish tutor was too often intent upon the ordinary academical course alone to the entire exclusion of every other department of knowledge: his thoughts were wholly engrossed by it, and so narrow were his views, that he overlooked the claims of all merit, however exalted, except success in the public examinations. "they are very dull people here," shelley said to me one evening, soon after his arrival, with a long-drawn sigh, after musing a while. "a little man sent for me this morning and told me in an almost inaudible whisper that i must read. 'you must read,' he said many times in his small voice. i answered that i had no objection. he persisted; so, to satisfy him, for he did not appear to believe me, i told him i had some books in my pocket, and i began to take them out. he stared at me and said that was not exactly what he meant. 'you must read _prometheus vinctus_, and demosthenes _de corona_ and euclid.' 'must i read euclid?' i asked sorrowfully. 'yes, certainly; and when you have read the greek i have mentioned, you must begin aristotle's _ethics_, and then you may go on his other treatises. it is of the utmost importance to be well acquainted with aristotle.' this he repeated so often that i was quite tired, and at last i said, 'must i care about aristotle? what if i do not mind aristotle?' i then left him, for he seemed to be in great perplexity." notwithstanding the slight he had thus cast upon the great master of the science that has so long been the staple of oxford, he was not blind to the value of the science itself. he took the scholastic logic very kindly, seized its distinctions with his accustomed quickness, felt a keen interest in the study and patiently endured the exposition of those minute discriminations, which the tyro is apt to contemn as vain and trifling. it should seem that the ancient method of communicating the art of syllogising has been preserved, in part at least, by tradition in this university. i have sometimes met with learned foreigners, who understood the end and object of the scholastic logic, having received the traditional instruction in some of the old universities on the continent; but i never found even one of my countrymen, except oxonians, who rightly comprehended the nature of the science. i may, perhaps, add that, in proportion as the self-taught logicians had laboured in the pursuit, they had gone far astray. it is possible, nevertheless, that those who have drunk at the fountain head and have read the _organon_ of aristotle in the original, may have attained to a just comprehension by their unassisted energies; but in this age and in this country, i apprehend the number of such adventurous readers is very considerable. shelley frequently exercised his ingenuity in long discussions respecting various questions in logic, and more frequently indulged in metaphysical inquiries. we read several metaphysical works together, in whole or in part, for the first time, or after a previous perusal by one or by both of us. the examination of a chapter of locke's _essay concerning human understanding_ would induce him, at any moment, to quit every other pursuit. we read together hume's _essays_, and some productions of scotch metaphysicians of inferior ability--all with assiduous and friendly altercations, and the latter writers, at least, with small profit, unless some sparks of knowledge were struck out in the collision of debate. we read also certain popular french works that treat of man for the most part in a mixed method, metaphysically, morally and politically. hume's _essays_ were a favourite book with shelley, and he was always ready to put forward in argument the doctrines they uphold. it may seem strange that he should ever have accepted the sceptical philosophy, a system so uncongenial with a fervid and imaginative genius, which can allure the cool, cautious, abstinent reasoner alone, and would deter the enthusiastic, the fanciful and the speculative. we must bear in mind, however, that he was an eager, bold, unwearied disputant; and although the position, in which the sceptic and the materialist love to entrench themselves, offers no picturesque attractions to the eye of the poet, it is well adapted for defensive warfare, and it is not easy for an ordinary enemy to dislodge him, who occupies a post that derives strength from the weakness of the assailant. it has been insinuated that, whenever a man of real talent and generous feelings condescends to fight under these colours, he is guilty of a dissimulation, which he deems harmless, perhaps even praiseworthy, for the sake of victory in argument. it was not a little curious to observe one, whose sanguine temper led him to believe implicitly every assertion, so that it was improbable and incredible, exulting in the success of his philosophical doubts, when, like the calmest and most suspicious of analysts, he refused to admit, without strict proof, propositions that many, who are not deficient in metaphysical prudence, account obvious and self-evident. the sceptical philosophy had another charm; it partook of the new and the wonderful, inasmuch as it called into doubt, and seemed to place in jeopardy during the joyous hours of disputation, many important practical conclusions. to a soul loving excitement and change, destruction, so that it be on a grand scale, may sometimes prove hardly less inspiring than creation. the feat of the magician, who, by the touch of his wand, could cause the great pyramid to dissolve into the air and to vanish from the sight, would be as surprising as the achievement of him, who, by the same rod, could instantly raise a similar mass in any chosen spot. if the destruction of the eternal monument was only apparent, the ocular sophism would be at once harmless and ingenuous: so was it with the logomachy of the young and strenuous logician, and his intellectual activity merited praise and reward. there was another reason, moreover, why the sceptical philosophy should be welcome to shelley at that time: he was young, and it is generally acceptable to youth. it is adopted as the abiding rule of reason throughout life, by those only who are distinguished by a sterility of soul, a barrenness of invention, a total dearth of fancy and a scanty stock of learning. such, in truth, although the warmth of juvenile blood, the light burthen of few years and the precipitation of inexperience may sometimes seem to contradict the assertion, is the state of the mind at the commencement of manhood, when the vessel has as yet received only a small portion of the cargo of the accumulated wisdom of past ages, when the amount of mental operations that have actually been performed is small, and the materials upon which the imagination can work are insignificant; consequently, the inventions of the young are crude and frigid. hence the most fertile mind exactly resembles in early youth the hopeless barrenness of those who have grown old in vain as to its actual condition, and it differs only in the unseen capacity for future production. the philosopher who declares that he knows nothing, and that nothing can be known, will readily find followers among the young, for they are sensible that they possess the requisite qualifications for entering his school, and are as far advanced in the science of ignorance as their master. a stranger who should have chanced to have been present at some of shelley's disputes, or who knew him only from having read some of the short argumentative essays which he composed as voluntary exercises, would have said, "surely the soul of hume passed by transmigration into the body of that eloquent young man; or, rather, he represents one of the enthusiastic and animated materialists of the french schools, whom revolutionary violence lately intercepted at an early age in his philosophical career." there were times, however, when a visitor, who had listened to glowing discourses delivered with a more intense ardour, would have hailed a young platonist, breathing forth the ideal philosophy, and in his pursuit of the intellectual world entirely overlooking the material or noticing it only to contemn it. the tall boy, who is permitted for the first season to scare the partridges with his new fowling-piece, scorns to handle the top or the hoop of his younger brother; thus the man, whose years and studies are mature, slights the first feeble aspirations after the higher departments of knowledge, that were deemed so important during his residence at college. it seems laughable, but it is true, that our knowledge of plato was derived solely from dacier's translation of a few of the dialogues, and from an english version of the french translation: we had never attempted a single sentence in the greek. since that time, however, i believe, few of our countrymen have read the golden works of that majestic philosopher in the original language more frequently and more carefully than ourselves; and few, if any, with more profit than shelley. although the source, whence flowed our earliest taste of the divine philosophy, was scanty and turbid, the draught was not the less grateful to our lips: our zeal in some measure atoned for our poverty. shelley was never weary of reading, or of listening to me whilst i read, passages from the dialogues contained in this collection, and especially from the _phædo_; and he was vehemently excited by the striking doctrines which socrates unfolds, especially by that which teaches that all our knowledge consists of reminiscences of what we had learned in a former existence. he often rose, paced slowly about the room, shook his long, wild locks and discoursed in a solemn tone and with a mysterious air, speculating concerning our previous condition, and the nature of our life and occupations in that world, where, according to plato, we had attained to erudition, and had advanced ourselves in knowledge so far that the most studious and the most inventive, or, in other words, those who have the best memory, are able to call back a part only, and with much pain and extreme difficulty, of what was formerly familiar to us. it is hazardous, however, to speak of his earliest efforts as a platonist, lest they should be confounded with his subsequent advancement; it is not easy to describe his first introduction to the exalted wisdom of antiquity without borrowing inadvertently from the knowledge which he afterwards acquired. the cold, ungenial, foggy atmosphere of northern metaphysics was less suited to the ardent temperament of his soul than the warm, bright, vivifying climate of southern and eastern philosophy. his genius expanded under the benign influence of the latter, and he derived copious instruction from a luminous system, that is only dark through excess of brightness, and seems obscure to vulgar vision through its extreme radiance. nevertheless, in argument--and to argue on all questions was his dominant passion--he usually adopted the scheme of the sceptics, partly, perhaps, because it was more popular and is more generally understood. the disputant, who would use plato as his text-book in this age, would reduce his opponents to a small number indeed. the study of that highest department of ethics, which includes all the inferior branches and is directed towards the noblest and most important ends of jurisprudence, was always next my heart; at an early age it attracted my attention. when i first endeavoured to turn the regards of shelley towards this engaging pursuit, he strongly expressed a very decided aversion to such inquiries, deeming them worthless and illiberal. the beautiful theory of the art of right, and the honourable office of administering distributive justice, have been brought into general discredit, unhappily for the best interests of humanity, and to the vast detriment of the state, into unmerited disgrace in the modern world by the errors of practitioners. an ingenuous mind instinctively shrinks from the contemplation of legal topics, because the word law is associated with, and inevitably calls up the idea of the low chicanery of a pettifogging attorney, of the vulgar oppression and gross insolence of a bailiff, or at best, of the wearisome and unmeaning tautology that distends an act of parliament, and the dull dropsical compositions of the special pleader, the conveyancer or other draughtsman. in no country is this unhappy debasement of a most illustrious science more remarkable than in our own; no other nation is so prone to, or so patient of, abuses; in no other land are posts, in themselves honourable, so accessible to the meanest. the spirit of trade favours the degradation, and every commercial town is a well-spring of vulgarity, which sends forth hosts of practitioners devoid of the solid and elegant attainments which could sustain the credit of the science, but so strong in the artifices that insure success, as not only to monopolise the rewards due to merit, but sometimes even to climb the judgment-seat. it is not wonderful, therefore, that generous minds, until they have been taught to discriminate, and to distinguish a noble science from ignoble practices, should usually confound them together, hastily condemning the former with the latter. shelley listened with much attention to questions of natural law, and with the warm interest that he felt in all metaphysical disquisitions, after he had conquered his first prejudice against practical jurisprudence. the science of right, like other profound and extensive sciences, can only be acquired completely when the foundations have been laid at an early age. had the energies of shelley's vigorous mind taken this direction at that time, it is impossible to doubt that he would have become a distinguished jurist. besides that fondness for such inquiries which is necessary to success in any liberal pursuit, he displayed the most acute sensitiveness of injustice, however slight, and a vivid perception of inconvenience. as soon as a wrong, arising from a proposed enactment or a supposed decision, was suggested, he instantly rushed into the opposite extreme; and when a greater evil was shown to result from the contrary course which he had so hastily adopted, his intellect was roused, and he endeavoured most earnestly to ascertain the true mean that would secure the just by avoiding the unjust extremes. i have observed in young men that the propensity to plunge headlong into a net of difficulty, on being startled at an apparent want of equity in any rule that was propounded, although at first it might seem to imply a lack of caution and foresight--which are eminently the virtues of legislators and of judges--was an unerring prognostic of a natural aptitude for pursuits, wherein eminence is inconsistent with an inertness of the moral sense, and a recklessness of the violation of rights, however remote and trifling. various instances of such aptitude in shelley might be furnished, but these studies are interesting to a limited number of persons only. as the mind of shelley was apt to acquire many of the most valuable branches of liberal knowledge, so there were other portions comprised within the circle of science, for the reception of which, however active and acute, it was entirely unfit. he rejected with marvellous impatience every mathematical discipline that was offered; no problem could awaken the slightest curiosity, nor could he be made sensible of the beauty of any theorem. the method of demonstration had no charm for him. he complained of the insufferable prolixity and the vast tautology of euclid and the other ancient geometricians; and when the discoveries or modern analysts were presented, he was immediately distracted, and fell into endless musings. with respect to the oriental tongues, he coldly observed that the appearance of the characters was curious. although he perused with more than ordinary eagerness the relations of travellers in the east and the translations of the marvellous tales of oriental fancy, he was not attracted by the desire to penetrate the languages which veil these treasures. he would never deign to lend an ear or an eye for a moment to my hebrew studies, in which i had made at that time some small progress; nor could he be tempted to inquire into the value of the singular lore of the rabbins. he was able, like the many, to distinguish a violet from a sunflower and a cauliflower from a peony, but his botanical knowledge was more limited than that of the least skilful of common observers, for he was neglectful of flowers. he was incapable of apprehending the delicate distinctions of structure which form the basis of the beautiful classification of modern botanists. i was never able to impart even a glimpse of the merits of ray or linnæus, or to encourage a hope that he would ever be competent to see the visible analogies that constitute the marked, yet mutually approaching _genera_, into which the productions of nature, and especially vegetables, are divided. it may seem invidious to notice imperfections in a mind of the highest order, but the exercise of a due candour, however unwelcome, is required to satisfy those who were not acquainted with shelley, that the admiration excited by his marvellous talents and manifold virtues in all who were so fortunate as to enjoy the opportunity of examining his merits by frequent intercourse, was not the result of the blind partiality that amiable and innocent dispositions, attractive manners and a noble and generous bearing sometimes create. shelley was always unwilling to visit the remarkable specimens of architecture, the objects of art, and the various antiquities that adorn oxford; although, if he encountered them by accident, and they were pointed out to him, he admired them more sincerely and heartily than the generality of strangers, who, through compliance with fashion, ostentatiously sought them out. his favourite recreation, as i have already stated, was a free, unrestrained ramble into the country. after quitting the city and its environs by walking briskly along the highway for several miles, it was his delight to strike boldly into the fields, to cross the country daringly on foot, as is usual with sportsmen when shooting; to perform, as it were, a pedestrian steeplechase. he was strong, light and active, and in all respects well suited for such exploits, and we used frequently to traverse a considerable tract in this manner, especially when the frost had dried the land, had given complete solidity to the most treacherous paths, and had thrown a natural bridge over spots that in open weather during the winter would have been nearly impassable. by resolutely piercing through a district in this manner we often stumbled upon objects in our humble travels that created a certain surprise and interest; some of them are still fresh in my recollection. my susceptible companion was occasionally much delighted and strongly excited by incidents that would, perhaps, have seemed unimportant trifles to others. one day we had penetrated somewhat farther than usual, for the ground was in excellent order, and as the day was intensely cold, although bright and sunny, we had pushed on with uncommon speed. i do not remember the direction we took; nor can i even determine on which side of the thames our course lay. we had crossed roads and lanes, and had traversed open fields and inclosures; some tall and ancient trees were on our right hand; we skirted a little wood, and presently came to a small copse. it was guarded by an old hedge, or thicket; we were deflected, therefore, from our onward course towards the left, and we were winding round it, when the quick eye of my companion perceived a gap. he instantly dashed in with as much alacrity as if he had suddenly caught a glimpse of a pheasant that he had lately wounded in a district where such game was scarce, and he disappeared in a moment. i followed him, but with less ardour, and, passing through a narrow belt of wood and thicket, i presently found him standing motionless in one of his picturesque attitudes, riveted to the earth in speechless astonishment. he had thrown himself thus precipitately into a trim flower-garden of small dimensions, encompassed by a narrow, but close girdle of trees and underwood; it was apparently remote from all habitations, and it contrasted strongly with the bleak and bare country through which we had recently passed. had the secluded scene been bright with the gay flowers of spring, with hyacinths and tulips; had it been powdered with mealy auriculas or conspicuous for a gaudy show of all anemones and of every ranuculus; had it been profusely decorated by the innumerable roses of summer, it would be easy to understand why it was so cheerful. but we were now in the very heart of winter, and after much frost scarcely a single wretched brumal flower lingered and languished. there was no foliage save the dark leaves of evergreens, and of them there were many, especially around and on the edges of the magic circle, on which account, possibly, but chiefly perhaps through the symmetry of the numerous small _parterres_, the scrupulous neatness of the corresponding walks, the just ordonnance and disposition of certain benches, the integrity and freshness of the green trellises, and of the skeletons of some arbours, and through every leafless excellence which the dried anatomy of a flower-garden can exhibit, its past and its future wealth seemed to shine forth in its present poverty, and its potential glories adorned its actual disgrace. the sudden transition from the rugged fields to this garnished and decorated retreat was striking, and held my imagination captive a few moments. the impression, however, would probably have soon faded from my memory, had it not been fixed there by the recollection of the beings who gave animation and a permanent interest to the polished nook. we admired the trim and retired garden for some minutes in silence, and afterwards each answered in monosyllables the other's brief expressions of wonder. neither of us had advanced a single step beyond the edge of the thicket which we had entered; but i was about to precede, and to walk round the magic circle, in order fully to survey the place, when shelley startled me by turning with astonishing rapidity, and dashing through the bushes and the gap in the fence with the mysterious and whimsical agility of a kangaroo. had he caught a glimpse of a tiger crouching behind the laurels, and preparing to spring upon him, he could not have vanished more promptly or more silently. i was habituated to his abrupt movements, nevertheless his alacrity surprised me, and i tried in vain to discover what object had scared him away. i retired, therefore, to the gap, and when i reached it, i saw him already at some distance, proceeding with gigantic strides nearly in the same route by which we came. i ran after him, and when i rejoined him, he had halted upon a turnpike-road and was hesitating as to the course he ought to pursue. it was our custom to advance across the country as far as the utmost limits of our time would permit, and to go back to oxford by the first public road we found, after attaining the extreme distance to which we could venture to wander. having ascertained the route homeward, we pursued it quickly, as we were wont, but less rapidly than shelley had commenced his hasty retreat. he had perceived that the garden was attached to a gentleman's house, and he had consequently quitted it thus precipitately. i had already observed on the right a winding path that led through a plantation to certain offices, which showed that a house was about a quarter of a mile from the spot where i then stood. had i been aware that the garden was connected with a residence, i certainly should not have trespassed upon it; but, having entered unconsciously, and since the owner was too far removed to be annoyed by observing the intrusion, i was tempted to remain a short time to examine a spot which, during my brief visit, seemed so singular. the superior and highly sensitive delicacy of my companion instantly took the alarm on discovering indications of a neighbouring mansion; hence his marvellous precipitancy in withdrawing himself from the garnished retirement he had unwittingly penetrated, and we advanced some distance along the road before he had entirely overcome his modest confusion. shelley had looked on the ornate inclosure with a poet's eye, and as we hastily pursued our course towards oxford by the frozen and sounding way, whilst the day rapidly declined, he discoursed of it fancifully, and with a more glowing animation than ordinary, like one agitated by a divine fury, and by the impulse of inspiring deity. he continued, indeed, so long to enlarge upon the marvels of the enchanted grove, that i hinted the enchantress might possibly be at hand, and since he was so eloquent concerning the nest, what would have been his astonishment had he been permitted to see the bird herself. he sometimes described, with a curious fastidiousness, the qualities which a female must possess to kindle the fire of love in his bosom. the imaginative youth supposed that he was to be moved by the most absolute perfection alone. it is equally impossible to doubt the exquisite refinement of his taste, or the boundless power of the most mighty of divinities; to refuse to believe that he was a just and skilful critic of feminine beauty and grace, and of whatever is attractive, or that he was never practically as blind, at the least, as men of ordinary talent. how sadly should we disparage the triumphs of love were we to maintain that he is able to lead astray the senses of the vulgar alone! in the theory of love, however, a poet will rarely err. shelley's lively fancy had painted a goodly portraiture of the mistress of the fair garden, nor were apt words wanting to convey to me a faithful copy of the bright original. it would be a cruel injustice to an orator should a plain man attempt, after a silence of more than twenty years, to revive his glowing harangue from faded recollections. i will not seek, therefore, to pourtray the likeness of the ideal nymph of the flower-garden. "since your fairy gardener," i said, "has so completely taken possession of your imagination," and he was wonderfully excited by the unexpected scene and his own splendid decorations, "it is a pity we did not notice the situation, for i am quite sure i should not be able to return thither, to recover your eden and the eve, whom you created to till it, and i doubt whether you could guide me." he acknowledged that he was as incapable of finding it again as of leading me to that paradise to which i had compared it. "you may laugh at my enthusiasm," he continued, "but you must allow that you were not less struck by the singularity of that mysterious corner of the earth than myself. you are equally entitled, therefore, to dwell there, at least, in fancy, and to find a partner whose character will harmonise with the genius of the place." he then declared, that thenceforth it should be deemed the possession of two tutelary nymphs, not of one; and he proceeded with unabated fervour to delineate the second patroness, and to distinguish her from the first. "no!" he exclaimed, pausing in the rapid career of words, and for a while he was somewhat troubled, "the seclusion is too sweet, too holy, to be the theatre of ordinary love; the love of the sexes, however pure, still retains some taint of earthly grossness; we must not admit it within the sanctuary." he was silent for several minutes, and his anxiety visibly increased. "the love of a mother for a child is more refined; it is more disinterested, more spiritual; but," he added, after some reflection, "the very existence of the child still connects it with the passion which we have discarded," and he relapsed into his former musings. "the love a sister bears towards a sister," he exclaimed abruptly, and with an air of triumph, "is unexceptionable." this idea pleased him, and as he strode along he assigned the trim garden to two sisters, affirming, with the confidence of an inventor, that it owed its neatness to the assiduous culture of their neat hands; that it was their constant haunt; the care of it their favourite pastime, and its prosperity, next after the welfare of each other, the chief wish of both. he described their appearance, their habits, their feelings, and drew a lovely picture of their amiable and innocent attachment; of the meek and dutiful regard of the younger, which partook, in some degree, of filial reverence, but was more facile and familiar; and of the protecting, instructing, hoping fondness of the elder, that resembled maternal tenderness, but had less of reserve and more of sympathy. in no other relation could the intimacy be equally perfect; not even between brothers, for their life is less domestic: there is a separation in their pursuits, and an independence in the masculine character. the occupations of all females of the same age and rank are the same, and by night sisters cherish each other in the same quiet nest. their union wears not only the grace of delicacy, but of fragility also; for it is always liable to be suddenly destroyed by the marriage of either party, or, at least, to be interrupted and suspended for an indefinite period. he depicted so eloquently the excellence of sisterly affection, and he drew so distinctly and so minutely the image of two sisters, to whom he chose to ascribe the unusual comeliness of the spot into which we had unintentionally intruded, that the trifling incident has been impressed upon my memory, and has been intimately associated in my mind, through his creations, with his poetic character. chapter iv the prince of roman eloquence affirms that the good man alone can be a perfect orator, and truly; for without the weight of a spotless reputation it is certain that the most artful and elaborate discourse must want authority--the main ingredient in persuasion. the position is, at least, equally true of the poet, whose grand strength always lies in the ethical force of his compositions, and these are great in proportion to the efficient greatness of their moral purpose. if, therefore, we would criticise poetry correctly, and from the foundation, it behoves us to examine the morality of the bard. in no individual, perhaps, was the moral sense ever more completely developed than in shelley; in no being was the perception of right and of wrong more acute. the biographer who takes upon himself the pleasing and instructive, but difficult and delicate task of composing a faithful history of his whole life, will frequently be compelled to discuss the important questions, whether his conduct, at certain periods, was altogether such as ought to be proposed for imitation; whether he was ever misled by an ardent imagination, a glowing temperament, something of hastiness in choice and a certain constitutional impatience; whether, like less gifted mortals, he ever shared in the common portion of mortality--repentance, and to what extent? such inquiries, however, do not fall within the compass of a brief narrative of his career at the university. the unmatured mind of a boy is capable of good intentions only and of generous and kindly feelings, and these were pre-eminent in him. it will be proper to unfold the excellence of his dispositions, not for the sake of vain and empty praise, but simply to show his aptitude to receive the sweet fury of the muses. his inextinguishable thirst for knowledge, his boundless philanthropy, his fearless, it may be his almost imprudent pursuit of truth have been already exhibited. if mercy to beasts be a criterion of a good man, numerous instances of extreme tenderness would demonstrate his worth. i will mention one only. we were walking one afternoon in bagley wood; on turning a corner we suddenly came upon a boy who was driving an ass. it was very young and very weak, and was staggering beneath a most disproportionate load of faggots, and he was belabouring its lean ribs angrily and violently with a short, thick, heavy cudgel. at the sight of cruelty shelley was instantly transported far beyond the usual measure of excitement. he sprang forward and was about to interpose with energetic and indignant vehemence. i caught him by the arm and to his present annoyance held him back, and with much difficulty persuaded him to allow me to be the advocate of the dumb animal. his cheeks glowed with displeasure and his lips murmured his impatience during my brief dialogue with the young tyrant. "that is a sorry little ass, boy," i said; "it seems to have scarcely any strength." "none at all; it is good for nothing." "it cannot get on; it can hardly stand. if anybody could make it go, you would; you have taken great pains with it." "yes, i have; but it is to no purpose!" "it is of little use striking it, i think." "it is not worth beating. the stupid beast has got more wood now than it can carry; it can hardly stand, you see!" "i suppose it put it upon its back itself?" the boy was silent; i repeated the question. "no; it has not sense enough for that," he replied, with an incredulous leer. by dint of repeated blows he had split his cudgel, and the sound caused by the divided portion had alarmed shelley's humanity. i pointed to it and said, "you have split your stick; it is not good for much now." he turned it, and held the divided end in his hand. "the other end is whole, i see, but i suppose you could split that too on the ass's back, if you chose; it is not so thick." "it is not so thick, but it is full of knots. it would take a great deal of trouble to split it, and the beast is not worth that; it would do no good!" "it would do no good, certainly; and if anybody saw you, he might say that you were a savage young ruffian and that you ought to be served in the same manner yourself." the fellow looked at me in some surprise, and sank into sullen silence. he presently threw his cudgel into the wood as far as he was able, and began to amuse himself by pelting the birds with pebbles, leaving my long-eared client to proceed at its own pace, having made up his mind, perhaps, to be beaten himself, when he reached home, by a tyrant still more unreasonable than himself, on account of the inevitable default of his ass. shelley was satisfied with the result of our conversation, and i repeated to him the history of the injudicious and unfortunate interference of don quixote between the peasant, john haldudo, and his servant, andrew. although he reluctantly admitted that the acrimony of humanity might often aggravate the sufferings of the oppressed by provoking the oppressor, i always observed that the impulse of generous indignation, on witnessing the infliction of pain, was too vivid to allow him to pause and consider the probable consequences of the abrupt interposition of the knight-errantry, which would at once redress all grievances. such exquisite sensibility and a sympathy with suffering so acute and so uncontrolled may possibly be inconsistent with the calmness and forethought of the philosopher, but they accord well with the high temperature of a poet's blood. as his port had the meekness of a maiden, so the heart of the young virgin who had never crossed her father's threshold to encounter the rude world, could not be more susceptible of all the sweet domestic charities than his: in this respect shelley's disposition would happily illustrate the innocence and virginity of the muses. in most men, and especially in very young men, an excessive addiction to study tends to chill the heart and to blunt the feelings, by engrossing the attention. notwithstanding his extreme devotion to literature, and amidst his various and ardent speculations, he retained a most affectionate regard for his relations, and particularly for the females of his family; it was not without manifest joy that he received a letter from his mother or his sisters. a child of genius is seldom duly appreciated by the world during his life, least of all by his own kindred. the parents of a man of talent may claim the honour of having given him birth, yet they commonly enjoy but little of his society. whilst we hang with delight over the immortal pages, we are apt to suppose that the gifted author was fondly cherished; that a possession so uncommon and so precious was highly prized; that his contemporaries anxiously watched his going out and eagerly looked for his coming in; for we should ourselves have borne him tenderly in our hands, that he might not dash his foot against a stone. surely such an one was given in charge to angels, we cry. on the contrary, nature appears most unaccountably to slight a gift that she gave grudgingly, as if it were of small value, and easily replaced. an unusual number of books, greek or latin classics, each inscribed with the name of the donor, which had been presented to him, according to custom, on quitting eton, attested that shelley had been popular among his schoolfellows. many of them were then at oxford, and they frequently called at his rooms. although he spoke of them with regard, he generally avoided their society, for it interfered with his beloved study, and interrupted the pursuits to which he ardently and entirely devoted himself. in the nine centuries that elapsed from the time of our great founder, alfred, to our days, there never was a student who more richly merited the favour and assistance of a learned body, or whose fruitful mind would have repaid with a larger harvest the labour of careful and judicious cultivation. and such cultivation he was well entitled to receive. nor did his scholar-like virtues merit neglect, still less to be betrayed, like the young nobles of falisci, by a traitorous schoolmaster to an enemy less generous than camillus. no student ever read more assiduously. he was to be found book in hand at all hours, reading in season and out of season, at table, in bed and especially during a walk; not only in the quiet country and in retired paths; not only at oxford in the public walks and high street, but in the most crowded thoroughfares of london. nor was he less absorbed by the volume that was open before him in cheapside, in cranbourne alley or in bond street, than in a lonely lane, or a secluded library. sometimes a vulgar fellow would attempt to insult or annoy the eccentric student in passing. shelley always avoided the malignant interruption by stepping aside with his vast and quiet agility. sometimes i have observed, as an agreeable contrast to these wretched men, that persons of the humblest station have paused and gazed with respectful wonder as he advanced, almost unconscious of the throng, stooping low, with bent knees and outstretched neck, poring earnestly over the volume, which he extended before him; for they knew this, although the simple people knew but little, that an ardent scholar is worthy of deference, and that the man of learning is necessarily the friend of humanity, and especially of the many. i never beheld eyes that devoured the pages more voraciously than his. i am convinced that two-thirds of the period of the day and night were often employed in reading. it is no exaggeration to affirm, that out of the twenty-four hours he frequently read sixteen. at oxford his diligence in this respect was exemplary, but it greatly increased afterwards, and i sometimes thought that he carried it to a pernicious excess. i am sure, at least, that i was unable to keep pace with him. on the evening of a wet day, when we had read with scarcely any intermission from an early hour in the morning, i have urged him to lay aside his book. it required some extravagance to rouse him to join heartily in conversation; to tempt him to avoid the chimney-piece on which commonly he had laid the open volume. "if i were to read as long as you read, shelley, my hair and my teeth would be strewed about on the floor, and my eyes would slip down my cheeks into my waistcoat pockets, or, at least, i should become so weary and nervous that i should not know whether it were so or not." he began to scrape the carpet with his feet, as if teeth were actually lying upon it, and he looked fixedly at my face, and his lively fancy represented the empty sockets. his imagination was excited, and the spell that bound him to his books was broken, and, creeping close to the fire, and, as it were, under the fireplace, he commenced a most animated discourse. few were aware of the extent, and still fewer, i apprehend, of the profundity of his reading. in his short life and without ostentation he had in truth read more greek than many an aged pedant, who with pompous parade prides himself upon this study alone. although he had not entered critically into the minute niceties of the noblest of languages, he was thoroughly conversant with the valuable matter it contains. a pocket edition of plato, of plutarch, of euripides, without interpretation or notes, or of the septuagint, was his ordinary companion; and he read the text straightforward for hours, if not as readily as an english author, at least with as much facility as french, italian or spanish. "upon my soul, shelley, your style of going through a greek book is something quite beautiful!" was the wondering exclamation of one who was himself no mean student. as his love of intellectual pursuits was vehement, and the vigour of his genius almost celestial, so were the purity and sanctity of his life most conspicuous. his food was plain and simple as that of a hermit, with a certain anticipation, even at this time, of a vegetable diet, respecting which he afterwards became an enthusiast in theory, and in practice an irregular votary. with his usual fondness for moving the abstruse and difficult questions of the highest theology, he loved to inquire whether man can justify, on the ground of reason alone, the practice of taking the life of the inferior animals, except in the necessary defence of his life and of his means of life, the fruits of that field which he has tilled, from violence and spoliation. "not only have considerable sects," he would say, "denied the right altogether, but those among the tender-hearted and imaginative people of antiquity, who accounted it lawful to kill and eat, appear to have doubted whether they might take away life merely for the use of man alone. they slew their cattle, not simply for human guests, like the less scrupulous butchers of modern times, but only as a sacrifice, for the honour and in the name of the deity; or, rather, of those subordinate divinities, to whom, as they believed, the supreme being had assigned the creation and conservation of the visible material world. as an incident to these pious offerings, they partook of the residue of the victims, of which, without such sanction and sanctification, they would not have presumed to taste. so reverent was the caution of humane and prudent antiquity!" bread became his chief sustenance when his regimen attained to that austerity which afterwards distinguished it. he could have lived on bread alone without repining. when he was walking in london with an acquaintance, he would suddenly run into a baker's shop, purchase a supply, and breaking a loaf he would offer half of it to his companion. "do you know," he said to me one day, with much surprise, "that such an one does not like bread? did you ever know a person who disliked bread?" and he told me that a friend had refused such an offer. i explained to him that the individual in question probably had no objection to bread in a moderate quantity at a proper time and with the usual adjuncts, and was only unwilling to devour two or three pounds of dry bread in the streets, and at an early hour. shelley had no such scruple; his pockets were generally well-stored with bread. a circle upon the carpet, clearly defined by an ample verge of crumbs, often marked the place where he had long sat at his studies, his face nearly in contact with his book, greedily devouring bread at intervals amidst his profound abstractions. for the most part he took no condiments; sometimes, however, he ate with his bread the common raisins which are used in making puddings, and these he would buy at little mean shops. he was walking one day in london with a respectable solicitor who occasionally transacted business for him. with his accustomed precipitation he suddenly vanished and as suddenly reappeared: he had entered the shop of a little grocer in an obscure quarter, and had returned with some plums, which he held close under the attorney's nose, and the man of fact was as much astonished at the offer as his client, the man of fancy, at the refusal. the common fruit of stalls, and oranges and apples were always welcome to shelley; he would crunch the latter as heartily as a schoolboy. vegetables, and especially salads, and pies and puddings were acceptable. his beverage consisted of copious and frequent draughts of cold water, but tea was ever grateful, cup after cup, and coffee. wine was taken with singular moderation, commonly diluted largely with water, and for a long period he would abstain from it altogether. he avoided the use of spirits almost invariably, and even in the most minute portions. like all persons of simple tastes, he retained his sweet tooth. he would greedily eat cakes, gingerbread and sugar; honey, preserved or stewed fruit with bread, were his favourite delicacies. these he thankfully and joyfully received from others, but he rarely sought for them or provided them for himself. the restraint and protracted duration of a convivial meal were intolerable; he was seldom able to keep his seat during the brief period assigned to an ordinary family dinner. these particulars may seem trifling, if indeed anything can be little that has reference to a character truly great; but they prove how much he was ashamed that his soul was in body, and illustrate the virgin abstinence of a mind equally favoured by the muses, the graces and philosophy. it is true, however, that his application at oxford, although exemplary, was not so unremitting as it afterwards became; nor was his diet, although singularly temperate, so meagre. however, his mode of living already offered a foretaste of the studious seclusion and absolute renunciation of every luxurious indulgence which ennobled him a few years later. had a parent desired that his children should be exactly trained to an ascetic life and should be taught by an eminent example to scorn delights and to live laborious days, that they should behold a pattern of native innocence and genuine simplicity of manners, he would have consigned them to his house as to a temple or to some primitive and still unsophisticated monastery. it is an invidious thing to compose a perpetual panegyric, yet it is difficult to speak of shelley, and impossible to speak justly, without often praising him. it is difficult also to divest myself of later recollections; to forget for a while what he became in days subsequent, and to remember only what he then was, when we were fellow-collegians. it is difficult, moreover, to view him with the mind which i then bore--with a young mind, to lay aside the seriousness of old age; for twenty years of assiduous study have induced, if not in the body, at least within, something of premature old age. it now seems an incredible thing, and altogether inconceivable, when i consider the gravity of shelley and his invincible repugnance to the comic, that the monkey tricks of the schoolboy could have still lingered, but it is certain that some slight vestiges still remained. the metaphysician of eighteen actually attempted once or twice to electrify the son of his scout, a boy like a sheep, by name james, who roared aloud with ludicrous and stupid terror, whenever shelley affected to bring by stealth any part of his philosophical apparatus near to him. as shelley's health and strength were visibly augmented, if by accident he was obliged to accept a more generous diet than ordinary, and as his mind sometimes appeared to be exhausted by never-ending toil, i often blamed his abstinence and his perpetual application. it is the office of a university, of a public institution for education, not only to apply the spur to the sluggish, but also to rein in the young steed, that, being too mettlesome, hastens with undue speed towards the goal. "it is a very odd thing, but every woman can live with my lord and do just what she pleases with him, except my lady!" such was the shrewd remark, which a long familiarity taught an old and attached servant to utter respecting his master, a noble poet. we may wonder in like manner, and deeply lament, that the most docile, the most facile, the most pliant, the most confident creature that ever was led through any of the various paths on earth, that a tractable youth, who was conducted at pleasure by anybody that approached him--it might be occasionally by persons delegated by no legitimate authority--was never guided for a moment by those upon whom, fully and without reservation, that most solemn and sacred obligation had been imposed, strengthened, morever, by every public and private, official and personal, moral, political and religious tie, which the civil polity of a long succession of ages could accumulate. had the university been in fact, as in name, a kind nursing-mother to the most gifted of her sons, to one, who seemed, to those that knew him best,-- heaven's exile straying from the orb of light; had that most awful responsibility, the right institution of those, to whom are to be consigned the government of the country and the conservation of whatever good human society has elaborated and excogitated, duly weighed upon the consciences of his instructors, they would have gained his entire confidence by frank kindness, they would have repressed his too eager impatience to master the sum of knowledge, they would have mitigated the rigorous austerity of his course of living, and they would have remitted the extreme tension of his soul by reconciling him to liberal mirth; convincing him that, if life be not wholly a jest, there are at least many comic scenes occasionally interspersed in the great drama. nor is the last benefit of trifling importance, for, as an unseemly and excessive gravity is usually the sign of a dull fellow, so is the prevalence of this defect the characteristic of an unlearned and illiberal age. shelley was actually offended, and indeed more indignant than would appear to be consistent with the singular mildness of his nature, at a coarse and awkward jest, especially if it were immodest or uncleanly; in the latter case his anger was unbounded, and his uneasiness pre-eminent. he was, however, sometimes vehemently delighted by exquisite and delicate sallies, particularly with a fanciful, and perhaps somewhat fantastical facetiousness--possibly the more because he was himself utterly incapable of pleasantry. in every free state, in all countries that enjoy republican institutions, the view which each citizen takes of politics is an essential ingredient in the estimate of his ethical character. the wisdom of a very young man is but foolishness. nevertheless, if we would rightly comprehend the moral and intellectual constitution of the youthful poet, it will be expedient to take into account the manner in which he was affected towards the grand political questions, at a period when the whole of the civilised world was agitated by a fierce storm of excitement, that, happily for the peace and well-being of society, is of rare occurrence. chapter v "above all things, liberty!" the political creed of shelley may be comprised in a few words; it was, in truth, that of most men, and in a peculiar manner of young men, during the freshness and early springs of revolutions. he held that not only is the greatest possible amount of civil liberty to be preferred to all other blessings, but that this advantage is all-sufficient, and comprehends within itself every other desirable object. the former position is as unquestionably true as the latter is undoubtedly false. it is no small praise, however, to a very young man, to say that on a subject so remote from the comprehension of youth his opinions were at least half right. twenty years ago the young men at our universities were satisfied with upholding the political doctrines of which they approved by private discussions. they did not venture to form clubs of brothers and to move resolutions, except a small number of enthusiasts of doubtful sanity, who alone sought to usurp by crude and premature efforts the offices of a matured understanding and of manly experience. although our fellow-collegians were willing to learn before they took upon themselves the heavy and thankless charge of instructing others, there was no lack of beardless politicians amongst us. of these, some were more strenuous supporters of the popular cause in our little circles than others; but all were abundantly liberal. a brutus or a gracchus would have found many to surpass him, and few, indeed, to fall short in theoretical devotion to the interests of equal freedom. i can scarcely recollect a single exception amongst my numerous acquaintances. all, i think were worthy of the best ages of greece or of rome; all were true, loyal citizens, brave and free. how, indeed, could it be otherwise? liberty is the morning-star of youth; and those who enjoy the inappreciable blessing of a classical education, are taught betimes to lisp its praises. they are nurtured in the writings of its votaries, and they even learn their native tongue, as it were, at secondhand, and reflected in the glorious pages of the authors, who in the ancient languages and in strains of a noble eloquence, that will never fail to astonish succeeding generations, proclaim unceasingly, with every variety of powerful and energetic phrase, "above all things, liberty!" the praises of liberty were the favourite topic of our earliest verses, whether they flowed with natural ease, or were elaborated painfully out of the resources of art; and the tyrant was set up as an object of scorn, to be pelted with the first ink of our themes. how, then, can an educated youth be other than free? shelley was entirely devoted to the lovely theory of freedom; but he was also eminently averse at that time from engaging in the far less beautiful practices, wherein are found the actual and operative energies of liberty. i was maintaining against him one day at my rooms the superiority of the ethical sciences over the physical. in the course of the debate he cried with shrill vehemence--for as his aspect presented to the eye much of the elegance of the peacock, so, in like manner, he cruelly lacerated the ear with its discordant tones--"you talk of the pre-eminence of moral philosophy? do you comprehend politics under that name? and will you tell me, as others do, and as plato, i believe, teaches, that of this philosophy the political department is the highest and the most important?" without expecting an answer, he continued: "a certain nobleman" (and he named him) "advised me to turn my thoughts towards politics immediately. 'you cannot direct your attention that way too early in this country,' said the duke. 'they are the proper career for a young man of ability and of your station in life. that course is the most advantageous, because it is a monopoly. a little success in that line goes far, since the number of competitors is limited; and of those who are admitted to the contest, the greater part are altogether devoid of talent or too indolent to exert themselves. so many are excluded, that, of the few who are permitted to enter, it is difficult to find any that are not utterly unfit for the ordinary service of the state. it is not so in the church, it is not so at the bar; there all may offer themselves. the number of rivals in those professions is far greater, and they are, besides, of a more formidable kind. in letters, your chance of success is still worse. there, none can win gold and all may try to gain reputation; it is a struggle for glory--the competition is infinite, there are no bounds--that is a spacious field indeed, a sea without shores!' the duke talked thus to me many times and strongly urged me to give myself up to politics without delay, but he did not persuade me. with how unconquerable an aversion do i shrink from political articles in newspapers and reviews? i have heard people talk politics by the hour, and how i hated it and them! i went with my father several times to the house of commons, and what creatures did i see there! what faces! what an expression of countenance! what wretched beings!" here he clasped his hands, and raised his voice to a painful pitch, with fervid dislike. "good god! what men did we meet about the house, in the lobbies and passages; and my father was so civil to all of them, to animals that i regarded with unmitigated disgust! a friend of mine, an eton man, told me that his father once invited some corporation to dine at his house, and that he was present. when dinner was over, and the gentlemen nearly drunk, they started up, he said, and swore they would all kiss his sisters. his father laughed and did not forbid them, and the wretches would have done it; but his sisters heard of the infamous proposal, and ran upstairs, and locked themselves in their bedrooms. i asked him if he would not have knocked them down if they had attempted such an outrage in his presence. it seems to me that a man of spirit ought to have killed them if they had effected their purpose." the sceptical philosopher sat for several minutes in silence, his cheeks glowing with intense indignation. "never did a more finished gentleman than shelley step across a drawing-room!" lord byron exclaimed; and on reading the remark in mr moore's _memoirs_ i was struck forcibly by its justice, and wondered for a moment that, since it was so obvious, it had never been made before. perhaps this excellence was blended so intimately with his entire nature, and it seemed to constitute a part of his identity, and being essential and necessary was therefore never noticed. i observed his eminence in this respect before i had sat beside him many minutes at our first meeting in the hall of university college. since that day i have had the happiness to associate with some of the best specimens of gentlemen; but with all due deference for those admirable persons (may my candour and my preference be pardoned), i can affirm that shelley was almost the only example i have yet found that was never wanting, even in the most minute particular, of the infinite and various observances of pure, entire and perfect gentility. trifling, indeed, and unimportant, were the aberrations of some whom i could name; but in him, during a long and most unusual familiarity, i discovered no flaw, no tarnish; the metal was sterling, and the polish absolute. i have also seen him, although rarely, "stepping across a drawing-room," and then his deportment, as lord byron testifies, was unexceptionable. such attendances, however, were pain and grief to him, and his inward discomfort was not hard to be discerned. an acute observer, whose experience of life was infinite, and who had been long and largely conversant with the best society in each of the principal capitals of europe, had met shelley, of whom he was a sincere admirer, several times in public. he remarked one evening, at a large party where shelley was present, his extreme discomfort, and added, "it is but too plain that there is something radically wrong in the constitution of our assemblies, since such a man finds not pleasure, nor even ease, in them." his speculations concerning the cause were ingenious, and would possibly be not altogether devoid of interest; but they are wholly unconnected with the object of these scanty reminiscences. whilst shelley was still a boy, clubs were few in number, of small dimensions, and generally confined to some specific class of persons. the universal and populous clubs of the present day were almost unknown. his reputation has increased so much of late, that the honour of including his name in the list of members, were such a distinction happily attainable, would now perhaps be sought by many of these societies; but it is not less certain, that, for a period of nearly twenty years, he would have been black-balled by almost every club in london. nor would such a fate be peculiar to him. when a great man has attained to a certain eminence, his patronage is courted by those who were wont carefully to shun him, whilst he was quietly and steadily pursuing the path that would inevitably lead to advancement. it would be easy to multiply instances, if proofs were needed, and this remarkable peculiarity of our social existence is an additional and irrefragable argument that the constitution of refined society is radically vicious, since it flatters timid, insipid mediocrity, and is opposed to the bold, fearless originality, and to that novelty which invariably characterise true genius. the first dawnings of talent are instantly hailed and warmly welcomed, as soon as some singularity unequivocally attests its existence amongst nations where hypocrisy and intolerance are less absolute. if all men were required to name the greatest disappointment they had respectively experienced, the catalogue would be very various; accordingly as the expectations of each had been elevated respecting the pleasure that would attend the gratification of some favourite wish, would the reality in almost every case have fallen short of the anticipation. the variety would be infinite as to the nature of the first disappointment; but if the same irresistible authority could command that another and another should be added to the list, it is probable that there would be less dissimilarity in the returns of the disappointments which were deemed second and the next in the importance to the greatest, and perhaps, in numerous instances, the third would coincide. many individuals, having exhausted their principal private and peculiar grievances in the first and second examples, would assign the third place to some public and general matter. the youth who has formed his conceptions of the power, effects and aspect of eloquence from the specimens furnished by the orators of greece and rome, receives as rude a shock on his first visit to the house of commons as can possibly be inflicted on his juvenile expectations, where the subject is entirely unconnected with the interests of the individual. a prodigious number of persons would, doubtless, inscribe nearly at the top of the list of disappointments the deplorable and inconceivable inferiority of the actual to the imaginary debate. it is not wonderful, therefore, that the sensitive, the susceptible, the fastidious shelley, whose lively fancy was easily wound up to a degree of excitement incomprehensible to calmer and more phlegmatic temperaments, felt keenly a mortification that can wound even the most obtuse intellects, and expressed with contemptuous acrimony his dissatisfaction at the cheat which his warm imagination had put upon him. had he resolved to enter the career of politics, it is possible that habit would have reconciled him to many things which at first seemed to be repugnant to his nature. it is possible that his unwearied industry, his remarkable talents and vast energy would have led him to renown in that line as well as in another; but it is most probable that his parliamentary success would have been but moderate. opportunities of advancement were offered to him, and he rejected them, in the opinion of some of his friends unwisely and improperly; but, perhaps, he only refused gifts that were unfit for him: he struck out a path for himself, and, by boldly following his own course, greatly as it deviated from that prescribed to him, he became incomparably more illustrious than he would have been had he steadily pursued the beaten track. his memory will be green when the herd of everyday politicians are forgotten. ordinary rules may guide ordinary men, but the orbit of the child of genius is essentially eccentric. although the mind of shelley had certainly a strong bias towards democracy, and he embraced with an ardent and youthful fondness the theory of political equality, his feelings and behaviour were in many respects highly aristocratical. the ideal republic, wherein his fancy loved to expatiate, was adorned by all the graces which plato, xenophon and cicero have thrown around the memory of ancient liberty; the unbleached web of transatlantic freedom, and the inconsiderate vehemence of such of our domestic patriots as would demonstrate their devotion to the good cause, by treating with irreverence whatever is most venerable, were equally repugnant to his sensitive and reverential spirit. as a politician shelley was in theory wholly a republican, but in practice, so far only as it is possible to be one with due regard for the sacred rights of a scholar and a gentleman; and these being in his eyes always more inviolable than any scheme of polity or civil institution, although he was upon paper and in discourse a sturdy commonwealth-man, the living, moving, acting individual had much of the senatorial and conservative, and was in the main eminently patrician. the rare assiduity of the young poet in the acquisition of general knowledge has been already described; he had, moreover, diligently studied the mechanism of his art before he came to oxford. he composed latin verses with singular facility. on visiting him soon after his arrival at the accustomed hour of one, we were writing the usual exercise, which we presented, i believe, once a week--a latin translation of a paper in the _spectator_. he soon finished it, and as he held it before the fire to dry, i offered to take it from him. he said it was not worth looking at; but as i persisted, through a certain scholastic curiosity to examine the latinity of my new acquaintance, he gave it to me. the latin was sufficiently correct, but the version was paraphrastic, which i observed. he assented, and said that it would pass muster, and he felt no interest in such efforts and no desire to excel in them. i also noticed many portions of heroic verses, and even several entire verses, and these i pointed out as defects in a prose composition. he smiled archly, and asked, in his piercing whisper, "do you think they will observe them? i inserted them intentionally to try their ears! i once showed up a theme at eton to old keate, in which there were a great many verses; but he observed them, scanned them, and asked why i had introduced them? i answered that i did not know they were there. this was partly true and partly false; but he believed me, and immediately applied to me the line in which ovid says of himself-- 'et quod tentabam dicere, versus erat.'" shelley then spoke of the facility with which he could compose latin verses; and, taking the paper out of my hand, he began to put the entire translation into verse. he would sometimes open at hazard a prose writer, as livy or sallust, and, by changing the position of the words and occasionally substituting others, he would translate several sentences from prose to verse--to heroic, or more commonly elegiac, verse, for he was peculiarly charmed with the graceful and easy flow of the latter--with surprising rapidity and readiness. he was fond of displaying this accomplishment during his residence at oxford, but he forgot to bring it away with him when he quitted the university; or perhaps he left it behind him designedly, as being suitable to academic groves only and to the banks of the isis. in ovid the facility of versification in his native tongue was possibly in some measure innate, although the extensive and various learning of that poet demonstrate that the power of application was not wanting in him; but such a command over a dead language can only be acquired through severe study. there is much in the poetry of shelley that seems to encourage the belief, that the inspiration of the muses was seldom duly hailed by the pious diligence of the recipient. it is true that his compositions were too often unfinished, but his example cannot encourage indolence in the youthful writer, for his carelessness is usually apparent only. he had really applied himself as strenuously to conquer all the other difficulties of his art, as he patiently laboured to penetrate the mysteries of metre in the state wherein it exists entire and can alone be attained--in one of the classical languages. the poet takes his name from the highest effort of his art--creation; and, being himself a maker, he must, of necessity, feel a strong sympathy with the exercise of the creative energies. shelley was exceedingly deficient in mechanical ingenuity; and he was also wanting in spontaneous curiosity respecting the operations of artificers. the wonderful dexterity of well-practised hands, the long tradition of innumerable ages, and the vast accumulation of technical wisdom that are manifested in the various handicrafts, have always been interesting to me, and i have ever loved to watch the artist at his work. i have often induced shelley to take part in such observations, and although he never threw himself in the way of professors of the manual erudition of the workshop, his vivid delight in witnessing the marvels of the plastic hand, whenever they were brought before his eyes, was very striking; and the rude workman was often gratified to find that his merit in one narrow field was, at once and intuitively, so fully appreciated by the young scholar. the instances are innumerable that would attest an unusual sympathy with the arts of construction even in their most simple stages. i led him one summer's evening into a brickfield. it had never occurred to him to ask himself how a brick is formed; the secret was revealed in a moment. he was charmed with the simple contrivance, and astonished at the rapidity, facility and exactness with which it was put in use by so many busy hands. an ordinary observer would have smiled and passed on, but the son of fancy confessed his delight with an energy which roused the attention even of the ragged throng, that seemed to exist only that they might pass successive lumps of clay through a wooden frame. i was surprised at the contrast between the general indifference of shelley for the mechanical arts and his intense admiration of a particular application of one of them the first time i noticed the latter peculiarity. during our residence at oxford i repaired to his rooms one morning at the accustomed hour, and i found a tailor with him. he had expected to receive a new coat on the preceding evening; it was not sent home and he was mortified. i know not why, for he was commonly altogether indifferent about dress, and scarcely appeared to distinguish one coat from another. he was now standing erect in the middle of the room in his new blue coat, with all its glittering buttons, and, to atone for the delay, the tailor was loudly extolling the beauty of the cloth and the felicity of the fit; his eloquence had not been thrown away upon his customer, for never was man more easily persuaded than the master of persuasion. the man of thimbles applied to me to vouch his eulogies. i briefly assented to them. he withdrew, after some bows, and shelley, snatching his hat, cried with shrill impatience,-- "let us go!" "do you mean to walk in the fields in your new coat?" i asked. "yes, certainly," he answered, and we sallied forth. we sauntered for a moderate space through lanes and by-ways, until we reached a spot near to a farmhouse, where the frequent trampling of much cattle had rendered the road almost impassable, and deep with black mud; but by crossing the corner of a stack-yard, from one gate to another, we could tread upon clean straw, and could wholly avoid the impure and impracticable slough. we had nearly effected the brief and commodious transit--i was stretching forth my hand to open the gate that led us back into the lane--when a lean, brindled and most ill-favoured mastiff, that had stolen upon us softly over the straw unheard and without barking, seized shelley suddenly by the skirts. i instantly kicked the animal in the ribs with so much force that i felt for some days after the influence of his gaunt bones on my toe. the blow caused him to flinch towards the left, and shelley, turning round quickly, planted a kick in his throat, which sent him sprawling, and made him retire hastily among the stacks, and we then entered the lane. the fury of the mastiff, and the rapid turn, had torn the skirts of the new blue coat across the back, just about that part of the human loins which our tailors, for some wise but inscrutable purpose, are wont to adorn with two buttons. they were entirely severed from the body, except a narrow strip of cloth on the left side, and this shelley presently rent asunder. i never saw him so angry either before or since. he vowed that he would bring his pistols and shoot the dog, and that he would proceed at law against the owner. the fidelity of the dog towards his master is very beautiful in theory, and there is much to admire and to revere in this ancient and venerable alliance; but, in practice, the most unexceptionable dog is a nuisance to all mankind, except his master, at all times, and very often to him also, and a fierce surly dog is the enemy of the whole human race. the farmyards in many parts of england are happily free from a pest that is formidable to everybody but thieves by profession; in other districts savage dogs abound, and in none so much, according to my experience, as in the vicinity of oxford. the neighbourhood of a still more famous city--of rome--is likewise infested by dogs, more lowering, more ferocious and incomparably more powerful. shelley was proceeding home with rapid strides, bearing the skirts of his new coat on his left arm, to procure his pistols that he might wreak his vengeance upon the offending dog. i disliked the race, but i did not desire to take an ignoble revenge upon the miserable individual. "let us try to fancy, shelley," i said to him, as he was posting away in indignant silence, "that we have been at oxford, and have come back again, and that you have just laid the beast low--and what then?" he was silent for some time, but i soon perceived, from the relaxation of his pace, that his anger had relaxed also. at last he stopped short, and taking the skirts from his arm, spread them upon the hedge, stood gazing at them with a mournful aspect, sighed deeply and, after a few moments, continued his march. "would it not be better to take the skirts with us?" i inquired. "no," he answered despondingly; "let them remain as a spectacle for men and gods!" we returned to oxford, and made our way by back streets to our college. as we entered the gates the officious scout remarked with astonishment shelley's strange spencer, and asked for the skirts, that he might instantly carry the wreck to the tailor. shelley answered, with his peculiarly pensive air, "they are upon the hedge." the scout looked up at the clock, at shelley and through the gate into the street, as it were at the same moment and with one eager glance, and would have run blindly in quest of them, but i drew the skirts from my pocket and unfolded them, and he followed us to shelley's rooms. we were sitting there in the evening at tea, when the tailor, who had praised the coat so warmly in the morning, brought it back as fresh as ever, and apparently uninjured. it had been fine-drawn. he showed how skilfully the wound had been healed, and he commended at some length the artist who had effected the cure. shelley was astonished and delighted. had the tailor consumed the new blue coat in one of his crucibles, and suddenly raised it, by magical incantation, a fresh and purple phoenix from the ashes, his admiration could hardly have been more vivid. it might be, in this instance, that his joy at the unexpected restoration of a coat, for which, although he was utterly indifferent to dress, he had, through some unaccountable caprice, conceived a fondness, gave force to his sympathy with art; but i have remarked in innumerable cases, where no personal motive could exist, that he was animated by all the ardour of a maker in witnessing the display of the creative energies. nor was the young poet less interested by imitation, especially the imitation of action, than by the creative arts. our theatrical representations have long been degraded by a most pernicious monopoly, by vast abuses and enormous corruptions, and by the prevalence of bad taste. far from feeling a desire to visit the theatres, shelley would have esteemed it a cruel infliction to have been compelled to witness performances that less fastidious critics have deemed intolerable. he found delight, however, in reading the best of our english dramas, particularly the masterpieces of shakespeare, and he was never weary of studying the more perfect compositions of the attic tragedians. the lineaments of individual character may frequently be traced more certainly and more distinctly in trifles than in more important affairs; for in the former the deportment, even of the boldest and more ingenuous, is more entirely emancipated from every restraint. i recollect many minute traits that display the inborn sympathy of a brother practitioner in the mimetic arts. one silly tale, because, in truth, it is the most trivial of all, will best illustrate the conformation of his mind; its childishness, therefore, will be pardoned. a young man of studious habits and of considerable talent occasionally derived a whimsical amusement, during his residence at cambridge, from entering the public-houses in the neighbouring villages, whilst the fen-farmers and other rustics were smoking and drinking, and from repeating a short passage of a play, or a portion of an oration, which described the death of a distinguished person, the fatal result of a mighty battle, or other important events, in a forcible manner. he selected a passage of which the language was nearly on a level with vulgar comprehension, or he adapted one by somewhat mitigating its elevation; and, although his appearance did not bespeak histrionic gifts, he was able to utter it impressively and, what was most effective, not theatrically, but simply and with the air of a man who was in earnest; and if he were interrupted or questioned, he could slightly modify the discourse, without materially changing the sense, to give it a further appearance of reality; and so staid and sober was the gravity of his demeanour as to render it impossible for the clowns to solve the wonder by supposing that he was mad. during his declamation the orator feasted inwardly on the stupid astonishment of his petrified audience, and he further regaled himself afterwards by imagining the strange conjectures that would commence at his departure. shelley was much interested by the account i gave him of this curious fact, from the relation of two persons, who had witnessed the performance. he asked innumerable questions, which i was in general quite unable to answer; and he spoke of it as something altogether miraculous, that anyone should be able to recite extraordinary events in such a manner as to gain credence. as he insisted much upon the difficulty of the exploit, i told him that i thought he greatly over-estimated it, i was disposed to believe that it was in truth easy; that faith and a certain gravity were alone needed. i had been struck by the story, when i first heard it; and i had often thought of the practicability of imitating the deception, and although i had never proceeded so far myself, i had once or twice found it convenient to attempt something similar. at these words shelley drew his chair close to mine, and listened with profound silence and intense curiosity. i was walking one afternoon in the summer on the western side of that short street leading from long acre to covent garden, wherein the passenger is earnestly invited, as a personal favour to the demandant, to proceed straightway to highgate or to kentish town, and which is called, i think, james street. i was about to enter covent garden, when an irish labourer, whom i met, bearing an empty hod, accosted me somewhat roughly, and asked why i had run against him. i told him briefly that he was mistaken. whether somebody had actually pushed the man, or he sought only to quarrel--and although he doubtless attended a weekly row regularly, and the week was already drawing to a close, he was unable to wait until sunday for a broken head--i know not; but he discoursed for some time with the vehemence of a man who considers himself injured or insulted, and he concluded, being emboldened by my long silence, with a cordial invitation just to push him again. several persons, not very unlike in costume, had gathered round him, and appeared to regard him with sympathy. when he paused, i addressed to him slowly and quietly, and it should seem with great gravity, these words, as nearly as i can recollect them:-- "i have put my hand into the hamper; i have looked upon the sacred barley; i have eaten out of the drum! i have drunk and was well pleased! i have said _konx ompax_, and it is finished!" "have you, sir?" inquired the astonished irishman, and his ragged friends instantly pressed round him with "where is the hamper, paddy?" "what barley?" and the like. and ladies from his own country--that is to say, the basket-women, suddenly began to interrogate him, "now, i say, pat, where have you been drinking? what have you had?" i turned therefore to the right, leaving the astounded neophyte, whom i had thus planted, to expound the mystic words of initiation as he could to his inquisitive companions. as i walked slowly under the piazzas, and through the streets and courts, towards the west, i marvelled at the ingenuity of orpheus--if he were indeed the inventor of the eleusinian mysteries--that he was able to devise words that, imperfectly as i had repeated them, and in the tattered fragment that has reached us, were able to soothe people so savage and barbarous as those to whom i had addressed them, and which, as the apologists for those venerable rites affirm, were manifestly well adapted to incite persons, who hear them for the first time, however rude they may be, to ask questions. words, that can awaken curiosity, even in the sluggish intellect of a wild man, and can thus open the inlet of knowledge! * * * * * "_konx ompax_, and it is finished!" exclaimed shelley, crowing with enthusiastic delight at my whimsical adventure. a thousand times, as he strode about the house, and in his rambles out of doors, would he stop and repeat aloud the mystic words of initiation, but always with an energy of manner, and a vehemence of tone and of gesture that would have prevented the ready acceptance, which a calm, passionless delivery had once procured for them. how often would he throw down his book, clasp his hands, and starting from his seat, cry suddenly, with a thrilling voice, "i have said _konx ompax_, and it is finished!" chapter vi as our attention is most commonly attracted by those departments of knowledge which are striking and remarkable, rather than by those which are really useful, so, in estimating the character of an individual, we are prone to admire extraordinary intellectual powers and uncommon energies of thought, and to overlook that excellence which is, in truth, the most precious--his moral value. was the subject of biography distinguished by a vast erudition? was he conspicuous for an original genius? for a warm and fruitful fancy? such are the implied questions which we seek to resolve by consulting the memoirs of his life. we may sometimes desire to be informed whether he was a man of nice honour and conspicuous integrity; but how rarely do we feel any curiosity with respect to that quality which is, perhaps, the most important to his fellows--how seldom do we desire to measure his benevolence! it would be impossible faithfully to describe the course of a single day in the ordinary life of shelley without showing incidentally and unintentionally, that his nature was eminently benevolent--and many minute traits, pregnant with proof, have been already scattered by the way; but it would be an injustice to his memory to forbear to illustrate expressly, but briefly, in leave-taking, the ardent, devoted, and unwearied love he bore his kind. a personal intercourse could alone enable the observer to discern in him a soul ready winged for flight and scarcely detained by the fetters of body: that happiness was, if possible, still more indispensable to open the view of the unbounded expanse of cloudless philanthropy--pure, disinterested, and unvaried--the aspect of which often filled with mute wonder the minds of simple people, unable to estimate a penetrating genius, a docile sagacity, a tenacious memory, or, indeed, any of the various ornaments of the soul. whenever the intimate friends of shelley speak of him in general terms, they speedily and unconsciously fall into the language of panegyric--a style of discourse that is barren of instruction, wholly devoid of interest, and justly suspected by the prudent stranger. it becomes them, therefore, on discovering the error they have committed, humbly to entreat the forgiveness of the charitable for human infirmity, oppressed and weighed down by the fulness of the subject--carefully to abstain in future from every vague expression of commendation, and faithfully to relate a plain, honest tale of unadorned facts. a regard for children, singular and touching, is an unerring and most engaging indication of a benevolent mind. that this characteristic was not wanting in shelley might be demonstrated by numerous examples which crowd upon the recollection, each of them bearing the strongly impressed stamp of individuality; for genius renders every surrounding circumstance significant and important. in one of our rambles we were traversing the bare, squalid, ugly, corn-yielding country, that lies, if i remember rightly, to the south-west of oxford. the hollow road ascended a hill, and near the summit shelley observed a female child leaning against the bank on the right; it was of a mean, dull and unattractive aspect, and older than its stunted growth denoted. the morning, as well as the preceding night, had been rainy; it had cleared up at noon with a certain ungenial sunshine, and the afternoon was distinguished by that intense cold which sometimes, in the winter season, terminates such days. the little girl was oppressed by cold, by hunger and by a vague feeling of abandonment. it was not easy to draw from her blue lips an intelligible history of her condition. love, however, is at once credulous and apprehensive; and shelley immediately decided that she had been deserted, and with his wonted precipitation (for in the career of humanity his active spirit knew no pause), he proposed different schemes for the permanent relief of the poor foundling, and he hastily inquired which of them was the most expedient. i answered that it was desirable, in the first place, to try to procure some food, for of this the want was manifestly the most urgent. i then climbed the hill to reconnoitre, and observed a cottage close at hand, on the left of the road. with considerable difficulty--with a gentle violence indeed--shelley induced the child to accompany him thither. after much delay, we procured from the people of the place, who resembled the dull, uncouth and perhaps sullen rustics of that district, some warm milk. it was a strange spectacle to watch the young poet, whilst, with the enthusiastic and intensely earnest manner that characterises the legitimate brethren of the celestial art--the heaven-born and fiercely inspired sons of genuine poesy--holding the wooden bowl in one hand and the wooden spoon in the other, and kneeling on his left knee, that he might more certainly attain to her mouth. he urged and encouraged the torpid and timid child to eat. the hot milk was agreeable to the girl, and its effects were salutary; but she was obviously uneasy at the detention. her uneasiness increased, and ultimately prevailed. we returned with her to the place where we had found her, shelley bearing the bowl of milk in his hand. here we saw some people anxiously looking for the child--a man and, i think, four women, strangers of the poorest class, of a mean but not disreputable appearance. as soon as the girl perceived them she was content, and taking the bowl from shelley, she finished the milk without his help. meanwhile, one of the women explained the apparent desertion with a multitude of rapid words. they had come from a distance, and to spare the weary child the fatigue of walking farther, the day being at that time sunny, they left her to await their return. those unforeseen delays, which harass all, and especially the poor, in transacting business, had detained them much longer than they had anticipated. such, in a few words, is the story which was related in many, and which the little girl, who, it was said, was somewhat deficient in understanding as well as in stature, was unable to explain. so humble was the condition of these poor wayfaring folks that they did not presume to offer thanks in words; but they often turned back, and with mute wonder gazed at shelley who, totally unconscious that he had done anything to excite surprise, returned with huge strides to the cottage to restore the bowl and to pay for the milk. as the needy travellers pursued their toilsome and possibly fruitless journey, they had at least the satisfaction to reflect that all above them were not desolated by a dreary apathy, but that some hearts were warm with that angelic benevolence towards inferiors in which still higher natures, as we are taught, largely participate. shelley would often pause, halting suddenly in his swift course, to admire the children of the country people; and after gazing on a sweet and intelligent countenance, he would exhibit, in the language and with an aspect of acute anguish, his intense feeling of the future sorrows and sufferings--of all the manifold evils of life which too often distort, by a mean and most disagreeable expression, the innocent, happy and engaging lineaments of youth. he sometimes stopped to observe the softness and simplicity that the face and gestures of a gentle girl displayed, and he would surpass her gentleness by his own. we were strolling once in the neighbourhood of oxford when shelley was attracted by a little girl. he turned aside, and stood and observed her in silence. she was about six years of age, small and slight, bare-headed, bare-legged, and her apparel variegated and tattered. she was busily employed in collecting empty snail-shells, so much occupied, indeed, that some moments elapsed before she turned her face towards us. when she did so, we perceived that she was evidently a young gipsy; and shelley was forcibly struck by the vivid intelligence of her wild and swarthy countenance, and especially by the sharp glance of her fierce black eyes. "how much intellect is here!" he exclaimed; "in how humble a vessel, and what an unworthy occupation for a person who once knew perfectly the whole circle of the sciences; who has forgotten them all, it is true, but who could certainly recollect them, although most probably she will never do so, will never recall a single principle of all of them!" as he spoke he turned aside a bramble with his foot and discovered a large shell which the alert child instantly caught up and added to her store. at the same moment a small stone was thrown from the other side of the road; it fell in the hedge near us. we turned round and saw on the top of a high bank a boy, some three years older than the girl, and in as rude a guise. he was looking at us over a low hedge, with a smile, but plainly not without suspicion. we might be two kidnappers, he seemed to think; he was in charge of his little sister, and did not choose to have her stolen before his face. he gave the signal, therefore, and she obeyed it, and had almost joined him before we missed her from our side. they both disappeared, and we continued our walk. shelley was charmed with the intelligence of the two children of nature, and with their marvellous wildness. he talked much about them, and compared them to birds and to the two wild leverets, which that wild mother, the hare, produces. we sauntered about, and, half an hour afterwards, on turning a corner, we suddenly met the two children again full in the face. the meeting was unlooked for, and the air of the boy showed that it was unpleasant to him. he had a large bundle of dry sticks under his arm; these he gently dropped and stood motionless with an apprehensive smile--a deprecatory smile. we were perhaps the lords of the soil, and his patience was prepared, for patience was his lot--an inalienable inheritance long entailed upon his line--to hear a severe reproof with heavy threats, possibly even to receive blows with a stick gathered by himself not altogether unwittingly for his own back, or to find mercy and forbearance. shelley's demeanour soon convinced him that he had nothing to fear. he laid a hand on the round, matted, knotted, bare and black head of each, viewed their moving, mercurial countenances with renewed pleasure and admiration, and, shaking his long locks, suddenly strode away. "that little ragged fellow knows as much as the wisest philosopher," he presently cried, clapping the wings of his soul and crowing aloud with shrill triumph at the felicitous union of the true with the ridiculous, "but he will not communicate any portion of his knowledge. it is not from churlishness, however, for of that his nature is plainly incapable; but the sophisticated urchin will persist in thinking he has forgotten all that he knows so well. i was about to ask him myself to communicate some of the doctrines plato unfolds in his _dialogues_; but i felt that it would do no good; the rogue would have laughed at me, and so would his little sister. i wonder you did not propose to them some mathematical questions: just a few interrogations in your geometry; for that being so plain and certain, if it be once thoroughly understood, can never be forgotten!" a day or two afterwards (or it might be on the morrow), as we were rambling in the favourite region at the foot of shotover hill, a gipsy's tent by the roadside caught shelley's eye. men and women were seated on the ground in front of it, watching a pot suspended over a smoky fire of sticks. he cast a passing glance at the ragged group, but immediately stopped on recognising the children, who remembered us and ran laughing into the tent. shelley laughed also and waved his hand, and the little girl returned the salutation. there were many striking contrasts in the character and behaviour of shelley, and one of the most remarkable was a mixture or alternation of awkwardness with agility, of the clumsy with the graceful. he would stumble in stepping across the floor of a drawing-room; he would trip himself up on a smooth-shaven grass-plot, and he would tumble in the most inconceivable manner in ascending the commodious, facile, and well-carpeted staircase of an elegant mansion, so as to bruise his nose or his lip on the upper steps, or to tread upon his hands, and even occasionally to disturb the composure of a well-bred footman; on the contrary, he would often glide without collision through a crowded assembly, thread with unerring dexterity a most intricate path, or securely and rapidly tread the most arduous and uncertain ways. as soon as he saw the children enter the tent he darted after them with his peculiar agility, followed them into their low, narrow and fragile tenement, penetrated to the bottom of the tent without removing his hat or striking against the woven edifice. he placed a hand on each round, rough head, spoke a few kind words to the skulking children, and then returned not less precipitously, and with as much ease and accuracy as if he had been a dweller in tents from the hour when he first drew air and milk to that day, as if he had been the descendant, not of a gentle house, but of a long line of gipsies. his visit roused the jealousy of a stunted, feeble dog, which followed him, and barked with helpless fury; he did not heed it nor, perhaps, hear it. the company of gipsies were astonished at the first visit that had ever been made by a member of either university to their humble dwelling; but, as its object was evidently benevolent, they did not stir or interfere, but greeted him on his return with a silent and unobserved salutation. he seized my arm, and we prosecuted our speculations as we walked briskly to our college. the marvellous gentleness of his demeanour could conciliate the least sociable natures, and it had secretly touched the wild things which he had thus briefly noticed. we were wandering through the roads and lanes at a short distance from the tent soon afterwards, and were pursuing our way in silence. i turned round at a sudden sound--the young gipsy had stolen upon us unperceived, and with a long bramble had struck shelley across the skirts of his coat. he had dropped his rod, and was returning softly to the hedge. certain misguided persons, who, unhappily for themselves, were incapable of understanding the true character of shelley, have published many false and injurious calumnies respecting him--some for hire, others drawing largely out of the inborn vulgarity of their own minds, or from the necessary malignity of ignorance--but no one ever ventured to say that he was not a good judge of an orange. at this time, in his nineteenth year, although temperate, he was less abstemious in his diet than he afterwards became, and he was frequently provided with some fine samples. as soon as he understood the rude but friendly welcome to the heaths and lanes, he drew an orange from his pocket and rolled it after the retreating gipsy along the grass by the side of the wide road. the boy started with surprise as the golden fruit passed him, quickly caught it up and joyfully bore it away, bending reverently over it and carrying it with both his hands, as if, together with almost the size, it had also the weight of a cannon-ball. his passionate fondness of the platonic philosophy seemed to sharpen his natural affection for children, and his sympathy with their innocence. every true platonist, he used to say, must be a lover of children, for they are our masters and instructors in philosophy. the mind of a new-born infant, so far from being, as locke affirms, a sheet of blank paper, is a pocket edition containing every dialogue, a complete elzevir plato, if we can fancy such a pleasant volume, and moreover a perfect encyclopedia, comprehending not only the newest discoveries, but all those still more valuable and wonderful inventions that will hereafter be made. one sunday we had been reading plato together so diligently that the usual hour of exercise passed away unperceived. we sallied forth hastily to take the air for half an hour before dinner. in the middle of magdalen bridge we met a woman with a child in her arms. shelley was more attentive at that instant to our conduct in a life that was past or to come than to a decorous regulation of the present, according to the established usages of society in that fleeting moment of eternal duration styled the nineteenth century. with abrupt dexterity he caught hold of the child. the mother, who might well fear that it was about to be thrown over the parapet of the bridge into the sedgy waters below, held it fast by its long train. "will your baby tell us anything about pre-existence, madam?" he asked, in a piercing voice and with a wistful look. the mother made no answer, but, perceiving that shelley's object was not murderous but altogether harmless, she dismissed her apprehension and relaxed her hold. "will your baby tell us anything about pre-existence, madam?" he repeated, with unabated earnestness. "he cannot speak, sir," said the mother, seriously. "worse and worse," cried shelley, with an air of deep disappointment, shaking his long hair most pathetically about his young face; "but surely the babe can speak if he will, for he is only a few weeks old. he may fancy, perhaps, that he cannot, but it is only a silly whim. he cannot have forgotten entirely the use of speech in so short a time. the thing is absolutely impossible!" "it is not for me to dispute with you, gentlemen," the woman meekly replied, her eye glancing at our academical garb, "but i can safely declare that i never heard him speak, nor any child, indeed, of his age." it was a fine, placid boy: so far from being disturbed by the interruption, he looked up and smiled. shelley pressed his fat cheeks with his fingers; we commended his healthy appearance and his equanimity, and the mother was permitted to proceed, probably to her satisfaction, for she would doubtless prefer a less speculative nurse. shelley sighed deeply as we walked on. "how provokingly close are those new-born babes!" he ejaculated; "but it is not the less certain, notwithstanding the cunning attempts to conceal the truth, that all knowledge is reminiscence. the doctrine is far more ancient than the times of plato, and as old as the venerable allegory that the muses are the daughters of memory; not one of the nine was ever said to be the child of invention!" in consequence of this theory, upon which his active imagination loved to dwell, and which he was delighted to maintain in argument with the few persons qualified to dispute with him on the higher metaphysics, his fondness for children--a fondness innate in generous minds--was augmented and elevated, and the gentle instinct expanded into a profound and philosophical sentiment. the platonists have been illustrious in all ages on account of the strength and permanence of their attachments. in shelley the parental affections were developed at an early period to an unusual extent. it was manifest, therefore, that his heart was formed by nature and by cultivation to derive the most exquisite gratification from the society of his own progeny, or the most poignant anguish from a natural or unnatural bereavement. to strike him here was the cruel admonition which a cursory glance would at once convey to him who might seek where to wound him most severely with a single blow, should he ever provoke the vengeance of an enemy to the active and fearless spirit of liberal investigation and to all solid learning--of a foe to the human race. with respect to the theory of the pre-existence of the soul, it is not wonderful that an ardent votary of the intellectual should love to uphold it in strenuous and protracted disputation, as it places the immortality of the soul in an impregnable castle, and not only secures it an existence independent of the body, as it were, by usage and prescription, but moreover, raising it out of the dirt on tall stilts, elevates it far above the mud of matter. it is not wonderful that a subtle sophist, who esteemed above all riches and terrene honours victory in well-fought debate, should be willing to maintain a dogma that is not only of difficult eversion by those who, struggling as mere metaphysicians, use no other weapon than unassisted reason, but which one of the most illustrious fathers of the church--a man of amazing powers and stupendous erudition, armed with the prodigious resources of the christian theology, the renowned origen--was unable to dismiss; retaining it as not dissonant from his informed reason, and as affording a larger scope for justice in the moral government of the universe. in addition to his extreme fondness for children, another and a not less unequivocal characteristic of a truly philanthropic mind was eminently and still more remarkably conspicuous in shelley--his admiration of men of learning and genius. in truth the devotion, the reverence, the religion with which he was kindled towards all the masters of intellect, cannot be described, and must be utterly inconceivable to minds less deeply enamoured with the love of wisdom. the irreverent many cannot comprehend the awe, the careless apathetic worldling cannot imagine the enthusiasm, nor can the tongue that attempts only to speak of things visible to the bodily eye, express the mighty motion that inwardly agitated him when he approached, for the first time, a volume which he believed to be replete with the recondite and mystic philosophy of antiquity; his cheeks glowed, his eyes became bright, his whole frame trembled, and his entire attention was immediately swallowed up in the depths of contemplation. the rapid and vigorous conversion of his soul to intellect can only be compared with the instantaneous ignition and combustion which dazzle the sight, when a bundle of dry reeds or other inflammable substance is thrown upon a fire already rich with accumulated heat. the company of persons of merit was delightful to him, and he often spoke with a peculiar warmth of the satisfaction he hoped to derive from the society of the most distinguished literary and scientific characters of the day in england, and the other countries of europe, when his own attainments would justify him in seeking their acquaintance. he was never weary of recounting the rewards and favours that authors had formerly received; and he would detail in pathetic language, and with a touching earnestness, the instances of that poverty and neglect which an iron age assigned as the fitting portion of solid erudition and undoubted talents. he would contrast the niggard praise and the paltry payments that the cold and wealthy moderns reluctantly dole out, with the ample and heartfelt commendation and the noble remuneration which were freely offered by the more generous but less opulent ancients. he spoke with an animation of gesture and an elevation of voice of him who undertook a long journey, that he might once see the historian livy; and he recounted the rich legacies which were bequeathed to cicero and pliny the younger by testators venerating their abilities and attainments--his zeal, enthusiastic in the cause of letters, giving an interest and a novelty to the most trite and familiar instances. his disposition being wholly munificent, gentle and friendly, how generous a patron would he have proved had he ever been in the actual possession of even moderate wealth! out of a scanty and somewhat precarious income, inadequate to allow the indulgence of the most ordinary superfluities, and diminished by various casual but unavoidable incumbrances, he was able, by restricting himself to a diet more simple than the fare of the most austere anchorite, and by refusing himself horses and the other gratifications that appear properly to belong to his station, and of which he was in truth very fond, to bestow upon men of letters, whose merits were of too high an order to be rightly estimated by their own generation, donations large indeed, if we consider from how narrow a source they flowed. but to speak of this, his signal and truly admirable bounty, save only in the most distant manner and the most general terms, would be a flagrant violation of that unequalled delicacy with which it was extended to undeserved indigence, accompanied by well-founded and most commendable pride. to allude to any particular instance, however obscurely and indistinctly, would be unpardonable; but it would be scarcely less blameable to dismiss the consideration of the character of the benevolent young poet without some imperfect testimony of this rare excellence. that he gave freely, when the needy scholar asked or in silent, hopeless poverty seemed to ask his aid, will be demonstrated most clearly by relating shortly one example of his generosity, where the applicant had no pretensions to literary renown, and no claim whatever, except perhaps honest penury. it is delightful to attempt to delineate from various points of view a creature of infinite moral beauty, but one instance must suffice; an ample volume might be composed of such tales, but one may be selected because it contains a large admixture of that ingredient which is essential to the conversion of almsgiving into the genuine virtue of charity--self-denial. on returning to town after the long vacation at the end of october, i found shelley at one of the hotels in covent garden. having some business in hand he was passing a few days there alone. we had taken some mutton chops hastily at a dark place in one of the minute courts of the city at an early hour, and we went forth to walk; for to walk at all times, and especially in the evening, was his supreme delight. the aspect of the fields to the north of somers town, between that beggarly suburb and kentish town, has been totally changed of late. although this district could never be accounted pretty, nor deserving a high place even amongst suburban scenes, yet the air, or often the wind, seemed pure and fresh to captives emerging from the smoke of london. there were certain old elms, much very green grass, quiet cattle feeding and groups of noisy children playing with something of the freedom of the village green. there was, oh blessed thing! an entire absence of carriages and of blood-horses; of the dust and dress and affectation and fashion of the parks; there were, moreover, old and quaint edifices and objects which gave character to the scene. whenever shelley was imprisoned in london--for to a poet a close and crowded city must be a dreary gaol--his steps would take that direction, unless his residence was too remote, or he was accompanied by one who chose to guide his walk. on this occasion i was led thither, as indeed i had anticipated. the weather was fine, but the autumn was already advanced; we had not sauntered long in these fields when the dusky evening closed in, and the darkness gradually thickened. "how black those trees are," said shelley, stopping short and pointing to a row of elms. "it is so dark the trees might well be houses and the turf pavement--the eye would sustain no loss. it is useless, therefore, to remain here; let us return." he proposed tea at his hotel, i assented; and hastily buttoning his coat he seized my arm and set off at his great pace, striding with bent knees over the fields and through the narrow streets. we were crossing the new road, when he said shortly, "i must call for a moment, but it will not be out of the way at all," and then dragged me suddenly towards the left. i inquired whither we were bound, and, i believe, i suggested the postponement of the intended call till the morrow. he answered, it was not at all out of our way. i was hurried along rapidly towards the left. we soon fell into an animated discussion respecting the nature of the virtue of the romans, which in some measure beguiled the weary way. whilst he was talking with much vehemence and a total disregard of the people who thronged the streets, he suddenly wheeled about and pushed me through a narrow door; to my infinite surprise i found myself in a pawnbroker's shop. it was in the neighbourhood of newgate street, for he had no idea whatever, in practice, either of time or space, nor did he in any degree regard method in the conduct of business. there were several women in the shop in brown and grey cloaks, with squalling children. some of them were attempting to persuade the children to be quiet, or at least to scream with moderation; the others were enlarging upon and pointing out the beauties of certain coarse and dirty sheets that lay before them to a man on the other side of the counter. i bore this substitute for our proposed tea some minutes with tolerable patience, but as the call did not promise to terminate speedily, i said to shelley, in a whisper, "is not this almost as bad as the roman virtue?" upon this he approached the pawnbroker; it was long before he could obtain a hearing, and he did not find civility. the man was unwilling to part with a valuable pledge so soon, or perhaps he hoped to retain it eventually; or it might be that the obliquity of his nature disqualified him for respectful behaviour. a pawnbroker is frequently an important witness in criminal proceedings. it has happened to me, therefore, afterwards to see many specimens of this kind of banker. they sometimes appeared not less respectable than other tradesmen, and sometimes i have been forcibly reminded of the first i ever met with, by an equally ill-conditioned fellow. i was so little pleased with the introduction that i stood aloof in the shop, and did not hear what passed between him and shelley. on our way to covent garden i expressed my surprise and dissatisfaction at our strange visit, and i learned that when he came to london before, in the course of the summer, some old man had related to him a tale of distress--of a calamity which could only be alleviated by the timely application of ten pounds; five of them he drew at once from his pocket, and to raise the other five he had pawned his beautiful solar microscope! he related this act of beneficence simply and briefly, as if it were a matter of course, and such indeed it was to him. i was ashamed at my impatience, and we strode along in silence. it was past ten when we reached the hotel. some excellent tea and a liberal supply of hot muffins in the coffee-room, now quiet and solitary, were the more grateful after the wearisome delay and vast deviation. shelley often turned his head and cast eager glances towards the door, and whenever the waiter replenished our tea-pot or approached our box he was interrogated whether anyone had yet called. at last the desired summons was brought. shelley drew forth some banknotes, hurried to the bar, and returned as hastily, bearing in triumph under his arm a mahogany box, followed by the officious waiter, with whose assistance he placed it upon the bench by his side. he viewed it often with evident satisfaction, and sometimes patted it affectionately in the course of calm conversation. the solar microscope was always a favourite plaything or instrument of scientific inquiry. whenever he entered a house his first care was to choose some window of a southern aspect, and, if permission could be obtained by prayer or by purchase, straightway to cut a hole through the shutter to receive it. his regard for his solar microscope was as lasting as it was strong; for he retained it several years after this adventure, and long after he had parted with all the rest of his philosophical apparatus. such is the story of the microscope, and no rightly judging person who hears it will require the further accumulation of proofs of a benevolent heart; nor can i, perhaps, better close this sketch than with that impression of the pure and genial beauty of shelley's nature which this simple anecdote will bequeath. chapter vii the theory of civil liberty has ever seemed lovely to the eyes of a young man enamoured of moral and intellectual beauty. shelley's devotion to freedom, therefore, was ardent and sincere. he would have submitted with cheerful alacrity to the greatest sacrifices, had they been demanded of him, to advance the sacred cause of liberty; and he would have gallantly encountered every peril in the fearless resistance to active oppression. nevertheless, in ordinary times, although a generous and unhesitating patriot, he was little inclined to consume the pleasant season of youth amidst the intrigues and clamours of elections, and in the dull and selfish cabals of parties. his fancy viewed from a lofty eminence the grand scheme of an ideal republic; and he could not descend to the humble task of setting out the boundaries of neighbouring rights, and to the uninviting duties of actual administration. he was still less disposed to interest himself in the politics of the day because he observed the pernicious effects of party zeal in a field where it ought not to enter. it is no slight evil, but a heavy price paid for popular institutions, that society should be divided into hostile clans to serve the selfish purposes of a few political adventurers; and surely to introduce politics within the calm precincts of a university ought to be deemed a capital offence--a felony without benefit of clergy. the undue admission (to borrow the language of universities for a moment) is not less fatal to its existence as an institution designed for the advancement of learning, than the reception of the wooden horse within the walls of troy was to the safety of that renowned city. what does it import the interpreters of pindar and thucydides, the expositors of plato and aristotle, if a few interested persons, for the sake of some lucrative posts, affect to believe that it is a matter of vital importance to the state to concede certain privileges to the roman catholics; whilst others, for the same reason, pretend with tears in their eyes that the concessions would be dangerous and indeed destructive, and shudder with feigned horror at the harmless proposal? such pretexts may be advantageous and perhaps even honourable to the ingenious persons who use them for the purposes of immediate advancement; but of what concernment are they to apollo and the muses? how could the catholic question augment the calamities of priam, or diminish the misfortunes of the ill-fated house of labdacus? or which of the doubts of the ancient philosophers would the most satisfactory solution of it remove? why must the modest student come forth and dance upon the tightrope, with the mountebanks, since he is to receive no part of the reward, and would not emulate the glory of those meritorious artists? yet did this most inapplicable question mainly contribute to poison the harmless and studious felicity which we enjoyed at oxford. during the whole period of our residence there the university was cruelly disfigured by bitter feuds, arising out of the late election of its chancellor; in an especial manner was our own most venerable college deformed by them, and by angry and senseless disappointment. lord grenville had just been chosen. there could be no more comparison between his scholarship and his various qualifications for the honourable and useless office, and the claims of his unsuccessful opponent, than between the attainments of the best man of the year and those of the huge porter, who with a stern and solemn civility kept the gates of university college--the arts of mulled-wine and egg-hot being, in the latter case, alone excepted. the vanquished competitor, however, most unfortunately for its honour and character, was a member of our college; and in proportion as the intrinsic merits of our rulers were small, had the vehemence and violence of electioneering been great, that, through the abuse of the patronage of the church, they might attain to those dignities as the rewards of the activity of partisans, which they could never hope to reach through the legitimate road of superior learning and talents. their vexation at failing was the more sharp and abiding, because the only objection that vulgar bigotry could urge against the victor was his disposition to make concessions to the roman catholics; and every dull lampoon about popes and cardinals and the scarlet lady had accordingly been worn threadbare in vain. since the learned and liberal had conquered, learning and liberality were peculiarly odious with us at that epoch. the studious scholar, particularly if he were of an inquiring disposition, and of a bold and free temper, was suspected and disliked; he was one of the enemy's troops. the inert and the subservient were the loyal soldiers of the legitimate army of the faith. the despised and scattered nation of scholars is commonly unfortunate; but a more severe calamity has seldom befallen the remnant of true israelites than to be led captive by such a generation! youth is happy, because it is blithe and healthful and exempt from care; but it is doubly and trebly happy, since it is honest and fearless, honourable and disinterested. in the whole body of undergraduates, scarcely one was friendly to the holder of the loaves and the promiser of the fishes--lord eldon. all were eager--all, one and all--in behalf of the scholar and the liberal statesman; and plain and loud was the avowal of their sentiments. a sullen demeanour towards the young rebels displayed the annoyance arising from the want of success and from our lack of sympathy, and it would have demonstrated to the least observant that, where the muses dwell, the quarrels and intrigues of political parties ought not to come. by his family and his connections, as well as by disposition, shelley was attached to the successful side; and although it was manifest that he was a youth of an admirable temper, of rare talents and unwearied industry, and likely, therefore, to shed a lustre upon his college and the university itself, yet, as he was eminently delighted at that wherewith his superiors were offended, he was regarded from the beginning with a jealous eye. a young man of spirit will despise the mean spite of sordid minds; nevertheless the persecution which a generous soul can contemn, through frequent repetition too often becomes a severe annoyance in the long course of life, and shelley frequently and most pathetically lamented the political divisions which then harassed the university, and were a more fertile source of manifold ills in the wider field of active life. for this reason did he appear to cling more closely to our sweet, studious seclusion; and from this cause, perhaps, principally arose his disinclination--i may say, indeed, his intense antipathy--for the political career that had been proposed to him. a lurking suspicion would sometimes betray itself that he was to be forced into that path, and impressed into the civil service of the state, to become, as it were, a conscript legislator. a newspaper never found its way to his rooms the whole period of his residence at oxford; but when waiting in a bookseller's shop or at an inn he would sometimes, although rarely, permit his eye to be attracted by a murder or a storm. having perused the tale of wonder or of horror, if it chanced to stray to a political article, after reading a few lines he invariably threw it aside to a great distance; and he started from his seat his face flushing, and strode about muttering broken sentences, the purport of which was always the same: his extreme dissatisfaction at the want of candour and fairness, and the monstrous disingenuousness which politicians manifest in speaking of the characters and measures of their rivals. strangers, who caught imperfectly the sense of his indistinct murmurs, were often astonished at the vehemence of his mysterious displeasure. once i remember a bookseller, the master of a very small shop in a little country town, but apparently a sufficiently intelligent man, could not refrain from expressing his surprise that anyone should be offended with proceedings that seemed to him as much in the ordinary course of trade, and as necessary to its due exercise, as the red ligature of the bundle of quills, or the thin and pale brown wrapper which enclosed the quire of letter paper we had just purchased of him. a man of talents and learning, who refused to enlist under the banners of any party and did not deign to inform himself of the politics of the day, or to take the least part or interest in them, would be a noble and a novel spectacle; but so many persons hope to profit by dissensions, that the merits of such a steady lover of peace would not be duly appreciated, either by the little provincial bookseller or the other inhabitants of our turbulent country. the ordinary lectures in our college were of much shorter duration, and decidedly less difficult and less instructive than the lessons we had received in the higher classes of a public school; nor were our written exercises more stimulating than the oral. certain compositions were required at stated periods; but, however excellent they might be, they were never commended; however deficient, they were never censured; and, being altogether unnoticed, there was no reason to suppose that they were ever read. the university at large was not less remiss than each college in particular; the only incitement proposed was an examination at the end of four years. the young collegian might study in private, as diligently as he would, at oxford as in every other place; and if he chose to submit his pretensions to the examiners, his name was set down in the first, the second or the third class--if i mistake not, there were three divisions--according to his advancement. this list was printed precisely at the moment when he quitted the university for ever; a new generation of strangers might read the names of the unknown proficients, if they would. it was notorious, moreover, that, merely to obtain the academical degrees, every new-comer, who had passed through a tolerable grammar-school, brought with him a stock of learning, of which the residuum that had not evaporated during four years of dissipation and idleness, would be more than sufficient. the languid course of chartered laziness was ill suited to the ardent activity and glowing zeal of shelley. since those persons, who were hired at an enormous charge by his own family and by the state to find due and beneficial employment for him, thought fit to neglect this, their most sacred duty, he began forthwith to set himself to work. he read diligently--i should rather say he devoured greedily, with the voracious appetite of a famished man--the authors that roused his curiosity; he discoursed and discussed with energy; he wrote, he began to print and he designed soon to publish various works. he begins betimes who begins to instruct mankind at eighteen. the judicious will probably be of opinion that in eighteen years man can scarcely learn how to learn; and that for eighteen more years he ought to be content to learn; and if, at the end of the second period, he still thinks that he can impart anything worthy of attention, it is, at least, early enough to begin to teach. the fault, however, if it were a fault, was to be imputed to the times, and not to the individual, as the numerous precocious effusions of the day attest. shelley was quick to conceive, and not less quick to execute. when i called one morning at one, i found him busily occupied with some proofs, which he continued to correct and re-correct with anxious care. as he was wholly absorbed in this occupation, i selected a book from the floor, where there was always a good store, and read in silence for at least an hour. my thoughts being as completely abstracted as those of my companion, he startled me by suddenly throwing a paper with some force on the middle of the table, and saying, in a penetrating whisper, as he sprang eagerly from his chair, "i am going to publish some poems." in answer to my inquiries, he put the proofs into my hands. i read them twice attentively, for the poems were very short; and i told him there were some good lines, some bright thoughts, but there were likewise many irregularities and incongruities. i added that correctness was important in all compositions, but it constituted the essence of short ones; and that it surely would be imprudent to bring his little book out so hastily; and then i pointed out the errors and defects. he listened in silence with much attention, and did not dispute what i said, except that he remarked faintly that it would not be known that he was the author, and therefore the publication could not do him any harm. i answered that, although it might not be disadvantageous to be the unknown author of an unread work, it certainly could not be beneficial. he made no reply; and we immediately went out, and strolled about the public walks. we dined and returned to his rooms, where we conversed on different subjects. he did not mention his poems, but they occupied his thoughts; for he did not fall asleep as usual. whilst we were at tea, he said abruptly, "i think you disparage my poems. tell me what you dislike in them, for i have forgotten." i took the proofs from the place where i had left them, and looking over them, repeated the former objections, and suggested others. he acquiesced; and, after a pause, asked, might they be altered? i assented. "i will alter them." "it will be better to re-write them; a short poem should be of the first impression." some time afterwards he anxiously inquired, "but in their present form you do not think they ought to be published?" i had been looking over the proofs again, and i answered, "only as burlesque poetry;" and i read a part, changing it a little here and there. he laughed at the parody, and begged i would repeat it. i took a pen and altered it; and he then read it aloud several times in a ridiculous tone, and was amused by it. his mirth consoled him for the condemnation of his verses, and the intention of publishing them was abandoned. the proofs lay in his rooms for some days, and we occasionally amused ourselves during an idle moment by making them more and more ridiculous; by striking out the more sober passages; by inserting whimsical conceits, and especially by giving them what we called a dithyrambic character, which was effected by cutting some lines out, and joining the different parts together that would agree in construction, but were the most discordant in sense. although shelley was of a grave disposition, he had a certain sly relish for a practical joke, so that it were ingenuous and abstruse and of a literary nature. he would often exult in the successful forgeries of chatterton and ireland; and he was especially delighted with a trick that had lately been played at oxford by a certain noble viceroy, at that time an undergraduate, respecting the fairness of which the university was divided in opinion, all the undergraduates accounting it most just, and all the graduates, and especially the bachelors, extremely iniquitous, and indeed popish and jesuitical. a reward is offered annually for the best english essay on a subject proposed: the competitors send their anonymous essays, each being distinguished by a motto; when the grave arbitrators have selected the most worthy, they burn the vanquished essays, and open the sealed paper endorsed with a corresponding motto, and containing the name of the victor. on the late famous contention, all the ceremonies had been duly performed, but the sealed paper presented the name of an undergraduate, who was not qualified to be a candidate, and all the less meritorious discourses of the bachelors had been burnt, together with their sealed papers--so there was to be no bachelor's prize that year. when we had conferred a competent absurdity upon the proofs, we amused ourselves by proposing, but without the intention of executing our project, divers ludicrous titles for the work. sometimes we thought of publishing it in the name of some one of the chief living poets, or possibly of one of the graver authorities of the day; and we regaled ourselves by describing his wrathful renunciations, and his astonishment at finding himself immortalised, without his knowledge and against his will: the inability to die could not be more disagreeable even to tithonus himself; but how were we to handcuff our ungrateful favourite, that he might not tear off the unfading laurel which we were to place upon his brow? i hit upon a title at last, to which the pre-eminence was given, and we inscribed it upon the cover. a mad washerwoman, named peg nicholson, had attempted to stab the king, george the third, with a carving-knife; the story has long been forgotten, but it was then fresh in the recollection of every one; it was proposed that we should ascribe the poems to her. the poor woman was still living, and in green vigour within the walls of bedlam; but since her existence must be uncomfortable, there could be no harm in putting her to death, and in creating a nephew and administrator to be the editor of his aunt's poetical works. the idea gave an object and purpose to our burlesque--to ridicule the strange mixture of sentimentality with the murderous fury of the revolutionists, that was so prevalent in the compositions of the day; and the proofs were altered again to adapt them to this new scheme, but still without any notion of publication. when the bookseller called to ask for the proof, shelley told him that he had changed his mind, and showed them to him. the man was so much pleased with the whimsical conceit that he asked to be permitted to publish the book on his own account; promising inviolable secrecy, and as many copies _gratis_ as might be required: after some hesitation, permission was granted, upon the plighted honour of the trade. in a few days, or rather in a few hours, a noble quarto appeared; it consisted of a small number of pages, it is true, but they were of the largest size, of the thickest, the whitest and the smoothest drawing paper; a large, clear and handsome type had impressed a few lines with ink of a rich, glossy black, amidst ample margins. the poor maniac laundress was gravely styled "the late mrs margaret nicholson, widow;" and the sonorous name of fitzvictor had been culled for her inconsolable nephew and administrator. to add to his dignity, the waggish printer had picked up some huge text types of so unusual a form that even an antiquary could not spell the words at the first glance. the effect was certainly striking; shelley had torn open the large square bundle before the printer's boy quitted the room, and holding out a copy with both his hands, he ran about in an ecstasy of delight, gazing at the superb title-page. the first poem was a long one, condemning war in the lump--puling trash, that might have been written by a quaker, and could only have been published in sober sadness by a society instituted for the diffusion of that kind of knowledge which they deemed useful--useful for some end which they have not been pleased to reveal, and which unassisted reason is wholly unable to discover. the ms. had been confided to shelley by some rhymester of the day, and it was put forth in this shape to astonish a weak mind; but principally to captivate the admirers of philosophical poetry by the manifest incongruity of disallowing all war, even the most just, and then turning sharp round, and recommending the dagger of the assassin as the best cure for all evils, and the sure passport to a lady's favour. our book of useful knowledge--the philosopher's own book--contained sundry odes and other pieces, professing an ardent attachment to freedom, and proposing to stab all who were less enthusiastic than the supposed authoress. the work, however, was altered a little, i believe, before the final impression; but i never read it afterwards, for, when an author once sees his book in print, his task is ended, and he may fairly leave the perusal of it to posterity. i have one copy, if not more, somewhere or other, but not at hand. there were some verses, i remember, with a good deal about sucking in them; to these i objected, as unsuitable to the gravity of a university, but shelley declared they would be the most impressive of all. there was a poem concerning a young woman, one charlotte somebody, who attempted to assassinate robespierre, or some such person; and there was to have been a rapturous monologue to the dagger of brutus. the composition of such a piece was no mean effort of the muse. it was completed at last, but not in time; as the dagger itself has probably fallen a prey to rust, so the more pointed and polished monologue, it is to be feared, has also perished through a more culpable neglect. a few copies were sent, as a special favour, to trusty and sagacious friends at a distance, whose gravity would not permit them to suspect a hoax. they read and admired, being charmed with the wild notes of liberty. some, indeed, presumed to censure mildly certain passages as having been thrown off in too bold a vein. nor was a certain success wanting--the remaining copies were rapidly sold in oxford at the aristocratical price of half-a-crown for half-a-dozen pages. we used to meet gownsmen in high street reading the goodly volume as they walked--pensive, with a grave and sage delight--some of them, perhaps, more pensive because it seemed to portend the instant overthrow of all royalty from a king to a court card. what a strange delusion to admire our stuff--the concentrated essence of nonsense! it was indeed a kind of fashion to be seen reading it in public, as a mark of a nice discernment, of a delicate and fastidious taste in poetry, and the very criterion of a choice spirit. nobody suspected, or could suspect, who was the author. the thing passed off as the genuine production of the would-be regicide. it is marvellous, in truth, how little talent of any kind there was in our famous university in those days; there was no great encouragement, however, to display intellectual gifts. the acceptance, as a serious poem, of a work so evidently designed for a burlesque upon the prevailing notion of the day, that revolutionary ruffians were the most fit recipients of the gentlest passions, was a foretaste of the prodigious success that, a few years later, attended a still more whimsical paradox. poets had sung already that human ties put love at once to flight; that at the sight of civil obligations he spreads his light wings in a moment and makes default. the position was soon greatly extended, and we were taught by a noble poet that even the slightest recognition of the law of nations was fatal to the tender passion. the very captain of a privateer was pronounced incapable of a pure and ardent attachment; the feeble control of letters of marque could effectually check the course of affection; a complete union of souls could only be accomplished under the black flag. your true lover must necessarily be an enemy of the whole human race--a mere and absolute pirate. it is true that the tales of the love-sick buccaneers were adorned with no ordinary talent, but the theory is not less extraordinary on that account. the operation of peg nicholson was bland and innoxious. the next work that shelley printed was highly deleterious, and was destined to shed a baneful influence over his future progress. in itself it was more harmless than the former, but it was turned to a deadly poison by the unprovoked malice of fortune. we had read together attentively several of the metaphysical works that were most in vogue at that time, as locke _concerning human understanding_, and hume's _essays_, particularly the latter, of which we had made a very careful analysis, as was customary with those who read the _ethics_ and the other treatises of aristotle for their degree. shelley had the custody of these papers, which were chiefly in his handwriting, although they were the joint production of both in our common daily studies. from these, and from a small part of them only, he made up a little book, and had it printed, i believe, in the country, certainly not at oxford. his motive was this. he not only read greedily all the controversial writings on subjects interesting to him which he could procure, and disputed vehemently in conversation with his friends, but he had several correspondents with whom he kept up the ball of doubt in letters; of these he received many, so that the arrival of the postman was always an anxious moment with him. this practice he had learned of a physician, from whom he had taken instructions in chemistry, and of whose character and talents he often spoke with profound veneration. it was, indeed, the usual course with men of learning formerly, as their biographies and many volumes of such epistles testify. the physician was an old man, and a man of the old school. he confined his epistolary discussions to matters of science, and so did his disciple for some time; but when metaphysics usurped the place in his affections that chemistry had before held, the latter gradually fell into discepations, respecting existences still more subtle than gases and the electric fluid. the transition, however, from physics to metaphysics was gradual. is the electric fluid material? he would ask his correspondent; is light--is the vital principle in vegetables--in brutes--is the human soul? his individual character had proved an obstacle to his inquiries, even whilst they were strictly physical. a refuted or irritated chemist had suddenly concluded a long correspondence by telling his youthful opponent that he would write to his master, and have him well flogged. the discipline of a public school, however salutary in other respects, was not favourable to free and fair discussions, and shelley began to address inquiries anonymously, or rather, that he might receive an answer, as philalethes, and the like; but, even at eton, the postmen do not ordinarily speak greek. to prevent miscarriages, therefore it was necessary to adopt a more familiar name, as john short or thomas long. when he came to oxford, he retained and extended his former practice without quitting the convenient disguise of an assumed name. his object in printing the short abstract of some of the doctrines of hume was to facilitate his epistolary disquisitions. it was a small pill, but it worked powerfully. the mode of operation was this: he enclosed a copy in a letter and sent it by the post, stating, with modesty and simplicity, that he had met accidentally with that little tract, which appeared unhappily to be quite unanswerable. unless the fish was too sluggish to take the bait, an answer of refutation was forwarded to an appointed address in london, and then, in a vigorous reply, he would fall upon the unwary disputant and break his bones. the strenuous attack sometimes provoked a rejoinder more carefully prepared, and an animated and protracted debate ensued. the party cited, having put in his answer, was fairly in court, and he might get out of it as he could. the chief difficulty seemed to be to induce the person addressed to acknowledge the jurisdiction, and to plead; and this, shelley supposed, would be removed by sending, in the first instance, a printed syllabus instead of written arguments. an accident greatly facilitated his object. we had been talking some time before about geometrical demonstration; he was repeating its praises, which he had lately read in some mathematical work, and speaking of its absolute certainty and perfect truth. i said that this superiority partly arose from the confidence of mathematicians, who were naturally a confident race, and were seldom acquainted with any other science than their own; that they always put a good face upon the matter, detailing their arguments dogmatically and doggedly, as if there was no room for doubt, and concluded, when weary of talking in their positive strain, with q.e.d.: in which three letters there was so powerful a charm, that there was no instance of anyone having ever disputed any argument or proposition to which they were subscribed. he was diverted by this remark, and often repeated it, saying, if you ask a friend to dinner, and only put q.e.d. at the end of the invitation, he cannot refuse to come; and he sometimes wrote these letters at the end of a common note, in order, as he said, to attain to a mathematical certainty. the potent characters were not forgotten when he printed his little syllabus; and their efficacy in rousing his antagonists was quite astonishing. it is certain that the three obnoxious letters had a fertilising effect, and raised crops of controversy; but it would be unjust to deny that an honest zeal stimulated divers worthy men to assert the truth against an unknown assailant. the praise of good intention must be conceded; but it is impossible to accord that of powerful execution also to his antagonists; this curious correspondence fully testified the deplorable condition of education at that time. a youth of eighteen was able to confute men who had numbered thrice as many years; to vanquish them on their own ground, although he gallantly fought at a disadvantage by taking the wrong side. his little pamphlet was never offered for sale; it was not addressed to an ordinary reader, but to the metaphysician alone, and it was so short, that it was only designed to point out the line of argument. it was, in truth, a general issue, a compendious denial of every allegation, in order to put the whole case in proof; it was a formal mode of saying you affirm so and so, then prove it, and thus was it understood by his more candid and intelligent correspondents. as it was shorter, so was it plainer, and, perhaps in order to provoke discussion, a little bolder, than hume's _essays_--a book which occupies a conspicuous place in the library of every student. the doctrine, if it deserves the name, was precisely similar; the necessary and inevitable consequence of locke's philosophy, and of the theory that all knowledge is from without. i will not admit your conclusions, his opponent might answer; then you must deny those of hume; i deny them; but you must deny those of locke also, and we will go back together to plato. such was the usual course of argument. sometimes, however, he rested on mere denial, holding his adversary to strict proof, and deriving strength from his weakness. the young platonist argued thus negatively through the love of argument, and because he found a noble joy in the fierce shocks of contending minds. he loved truth, and sought it everywhere and at all hazards frankly and boldly, like a man who deserved to find it; but he also loved dearly victory in debate, and warm debate for its own sake. never was there a more unexceptionable disputant; he was eager beyond the most ardent, but never angry and never personal; he was the only arguer i ever knew who drew every argument from the nature of the thing, and who could never be provoked to descend to personal contentions. he was fully inspired, indeed, with the whole spirit of the true logician; the more obvious and indisputable the proposition which his opponent undertook to maintain, the more complete was the triumph of his art if he could refute and prevent him. to one who was acquainted with the history of our university, with its ancient reputation as the most famous school of logic, it seemed that the genius of the place, after an absence of several generations, had deigned to return at last; the visit, however, as it soon appeared, was ill-timed. the schoolman of old, who occasionally laboured with technical subtleties to prevent the admission of the first principles of belief, could not have been justly charged with the intention of promoting scepticism; his was the age of minute and astute disceptation, it is true, but it was also the epoch of the most firm, resolute and extensive faith. i have seen a dexterous fencing-master, after warning his pupil to hold his weapon fast, by a few turns of his wrist throw it suddenly on the ground and under his feet; but it cannot be pretended that he neglected to teach the art of self-defence, because he apparently deprived his scholar of that which is essential to the end proposed. to be disarmed is a step in the science of arms, and whoever has undergone it has already put his foot within the threshold; so it is likewise with refutation. in describing briefly the nature of shelley's epistolary contention, the recollection of his youth, his zeal, his activity, and particularly of many individual peculiarities, may have tempted me to speak sometimes with a certain levity, notwithstanding the solemn importance of the topics respecting which they were frequently maintained. the impression that they were conducted on his part, or considered by him, with frivolity or any unseemly lightness, would, however, be most erroneous; his whole frame of mind was grave, earnest and anxious, and his deportment was reverential, with an edification reaching beyond the age--an age wanting in reverence, an unlearned age, a young age, for the young lack learning. hume permits no object of respect to remain; locke approaches the most awful speculations with the same indifference as if he were about to handle the properties of triangles; the small deference rendered to the most holy things by the able theologian paley is not the least remarkable of his characteristics. wiser and better men displayed anciently, together with a more profound erudition, a superior and touching solemnity; the meek seriousness of shelley was redolent of those good old times before mankind had been despoiled of a main ingredient in the composition of happiness--a well-directed veneration. whether such disputations were decorous or profitable may be perhaps doubtful; there can be no doubt, however, since the sweet gentleness of shelley was easily and instantly swayed by the mild influences of friendly admonition, that, had even the least dignified of his elders suggested the propriety of pursuing his metaphysical inquiries with less ardour, his obedience would have been prompt and perfect. not only had all salutary studies been long neglected in oxford at that time, and all wholesome discipline was decayed, but the splendid endowments of the university were grossly abused. the resident authorities of the college were too often men of the lowest origin, of mean and sordid souls, destitute of every literary attainment, except that brief and narrow course of reading by which the first degree was attained: the vulgar sons of vulgar fathers, without liberality, and wanting the manners and the sympathies of gentlemen. a total neglect of all learning, an unseemly turbulence, the most monstrous irregularities, open and habitual drunkenness, vice and violence, were tolerated or encouraged with the basest sycophancy, that the prospect of perpetual licentiousness might fill the colleges with young men of fortune; whenever the rarely exercised power of coercion was extorted, it demonstrated the utter incapacity of our unworthy rulers by coarseness, ignorance and injustice. if a few gentlemen were admitted to fellowships, they were always absent; they were not persons of literary pretensions, or distinguished by scholarship, and they had no more share in the government of the college than the overgrown guardsmen, who, in long white gaiters, bravely protect the precious life of the sovereign against such assailants as the tenth muse, our good friend mrs nicholson. as the term was drawing to a close, and a great part of the books we were reading together still remained unfinished, we had agreed to increase our exertions, and to meet at an early hour. it was a fine spring morning on lady day, in the year , when i went to shelley's rooms; he was absent, but before i had collected our books he rushed in. he was terribly agitated. i anxiously inquired what had happened. "i am expelled," he said, as soon as he had recovered himself a little. "i am expelled! i was sent for suddenly a few minutes ago; i went to the common room, where i found our master and two or three of the fellows. the master produced a copy of the little syllabus, and asked me if i were the author of it. he spoke in a rude, abrupt and insolent tone. i begged to be informed for what purpose he put the question. no answer was given; but the master loudly and angrily repeated, 'are you the author of this book?' 'if i can judge from your manner,' i said, 'you are resolved to punish me if i should acknowledge that it is my work. if you can prove that it is, produce your evidence; it is neither just nor lawful to interrogate me in such a case and for such a purpose. such proceedings would become a court of inquisitors, but not free men in a free country.' 'do you choose to deny that this is your composition?' the master reiterated in the same rude and angry voice." shelley complained much of his violent and ungentlemanlike deportment, saying, "i have experienced tyranny and injustice before, and i well know what vulgar violence is; but i never met with such unworthy treatment. i told him calmly and firmly, that i was determined not to answer any questions respecting the publication on the table. he immediately repeated his demand. i persisted in my refusal, and he said furiously, 'then you are expelled, and i desire you will quit the college early to-morrow morning at the latest.' one of the fellows took up two papers and handed one of them to me; here it is." he produced a regular sentence of expulsion, drawn up in due form, under the seal of the college. shelley was full of spirit and courage, frank and fearless; but he was likewise shy, unpresuming and eminently sensitive. i have been with him in many trying situations of his after-life, but i never saw him so deeply shocked and so cruelly agitated as on this occasion. a nice sense of honour shrinks from the most distant touch of disgrace, even from the insults of those men whose contumely can bring no shame. he sat on the sofa, repeating with convulsive vehemence the words "expelled, expelled!" his head shaking with emotion, and his whole frame quivering. the atrocious injustice and its cruel consequences roused the indignation and moved the compassion of a friend who then stood by shelley. he has given the following account of his interference:-- "so monstrous and so illegal did the outrage seem, that i held it to be impossible that any man, or any body of men, would dare to adhere to it; but, whatever the issue might be, it was a duty to endeavour to the utmost to assist him. i at once stepped forward, therefore, as the advocate of shelley: such an advocate, perhaps, with respect to judgment, as might be expected at the age of eighteen, but certainly not inferior to the most practised defenders in good will and devotion. i wrote a short note to the masters and fellows, in which, as far as i can remember a very hasty composition after a long interval, i briefly expressed my sorrow at the treatment my friend had experienced, and my hope that they would reconsider their sentence since, by the same course of proceeding, myself, or any other person, might be subjected to the same penalty, and to the imputation of equal guilt. the note was despatched; the conclave was still sitting, and in an instant the porter came to summon me to attend, bearing in his countenance a promise of the reception which i was about to find. the angry and troubled air of men assembled to commit injustice according to established forms was then new to me, but a native instinct told me, as soon as i had entered the room, that it was an affair of party; that whatever could conciliate the favour of patrons was to be done without scruple, and whatever could tend to impede preferment was to be brushed away without remorse. the glowing master produced my poor note. i acknowledged it, and he forthwith put into my hand, not less abruptly, the little syllabus. 'did you write this?' he asked, as fiercely as if i alone stood between him and the rich see of durham. i attempted, submissively, to point out to him the extreme unfairness of the question, the injustice of punishing shelley for refusing to answer it; that if it were urged upon me i must offer the like refusal, as i had no doubt every man in college would, every gentleman, indeed, in the university, which, if such a course were adopted with all, and there could not be any reason why it should be used with one and not with the rest, would thus be stripped of every member. i soon perceived that arguments were thrown away upon a man possessing no more intellect or erudition, and far less renown, than that famous ram, since translated to the stars, through grasping whose tail less firmly than was expedient, the sister of phryxus formerly found a watery grave, and gave her name to the broad hellespont. "the other persons present took no part in the conversation; they presumed not to speak, scarcely to breathe, but looked mute subserviency. the few resident fellows, indeed, were but so many incarnations of the spirit of the master, whatever that spirit might be. when i was silent, the master told me to retire, and to consider whether i was resolved to persist in my refusal. the proposal was fair enough. the next day or the next week, i might have given my final answer--a deliberate answer; having in the meantime consulted with older and more experienced persons, as to what course was best for myself and for others. i had scarcely passed the door, however, when i was recalled. the master again showed me the book, and hastily demanded whether i admitted or denied that i was the author of it. i answered that i was fully sensible of the many and great inconveniences of being dismissed with disgrace from the university, and i specified some of them, and expressed a humble hope that they would not impose such a mark of discredit upon me without any cause. i lamented that it was impossible either to admit or to deny the publication--no man of spirit could submit to do so--and that a sense of duty compelled me respectfully to refuse to answer the question which had been proposed. 'then you are expelled,' said the master, angrily, in a loud, great voice. a formal sentence, duly signed and sealed, was instantly put into my hand: in what interval the instrument had been drawn up i cannot imagine. the alleged offence was contumacious refusal to disavow the imputed publication. my eye glanced over it, and observing the word _contumaciously_, i said calmly that i did not think that term was justified by my behaviour. before i had concluded the remark, the master, lifting up the little syllabus, and then dashing it on the table and looking sternly at me, said, 'am i to understand, sir, that you adopt the principles contained in this work?' or some such words; for like one red with the suffusion of college port and college ale, the intense heat of anger seemed to deprive him of the power of articulation, by reason of a rude provincial dialect and thickness of utterance, his speech being at all times indistinct. 'the last question is still more improper than the former,' i replied, for i felt that the imputation was an insult; 'and since, by your own act, you have renounced all authority over me, our communication is at an end.' 'i command you to quit my college to-morrow at an early hour.' i bowed and withdrew. i thank god i have never seen that man since; he is gone to his bed, and there let him sleep. whilst he lived, he ate freely of the scholar's bread and drank from his cup, and he was sustained, throughout the whole term of his existence, wholly and most nobly, by those sacred funds that were consecrated by our pious forefathers to the advancement of learning. if the vengeance of the all-patient and long-contemned gods can ever be roused, it will surely be by some such sacrilege! the favour which he showed to scholars and his gratitude have been made manifest. if he were still alive, he would doubtless be as little desirous that his zeal should now be remembered as those bigots who had been most active in burning archbishop cranmer could have been to publish their officiousness during the reign of elizabeth." busy rumour has ascribed, on what foundation i know not, since an active and searching inquiry has not hitherto been made, the infamy of having denounced shelley to the pert, meddling tutor of a college of inferior note, a man of an insalubrious and inauspicious aspect. any paltry fellow can whisper a secret accusation; but a certain courage, as well as malignity, is required by him who undertakes to give evidence openly against another; to provoke thereby the displeasure of the accused, of his family and friends, and to submit his own veracity and his motives to public scrutiny. hence the illegal and inquisitorial mode of proceeding by interrogation, instead of the lawful and recognised course by the production of witnesses. the disposal of ecclesiastical preferment has long been so reprehensible, the practice of desecrating institutions that every good man desires to esteem most holy is so inveterate, that it is needless to add that the secret accuser was rapidly enriched with the most splendid benefices, and finally became a dignitary of the church. the modest prelate did not seek publicity in the charitable and dignified act of deserving; it is not probable, therefore, that he is anxious at present to invite an examination of the precise nature of his deserts. the next morning at eight o'clock shelley and his friend set out together for london on the top of a coach; and with his final departure from the university these reminiscences of his life at oxford terminate. the narrative of the injurious effects of this cruel, precipitate, unjust and illegal expulsion upon the entire course of his subsequent life would not be wanting in interest or instruction, when the scene was changed from the quiet seclusion of academic groves and gardens, and the calm valley of our silvery isis, to the stormy ocean of that vast and shoreless world, to the utmost violence of which he was, at an early age, suddenly and unnaturally abandoned. the end edinburgh colston and coy, limited printers transcriber's notes: passages in italics are indicated by _italics_. the following misprints have been corrected: "surrrounding" corrected to "surrounding" (page ) "gometricians" corrected to "geometricians" (page ) provided by the internet archive oxford by robert peel and h. c. minchin with illustrations in colour new york the macmillan company |this volume is not intended to compete with any existing guides to oxford: it is not a guide-book in any formal or exhaustive sense. its purpose is to shew forth the chief beauties of the university and city, as they have appeared to several artists; with such a running commentary as may explain the pictures, and may indicate whatever is most interesting in connection with the scenes which they represent. slight as the notes are, there has been no sacrifice, it is believed, of accuracy. the principal facts have been derived from alexander chalmers' _history of the colleges, halls, and public buildings of the university of oxford_, from mr. lang's _oxford_, and from the _oxford and its colleges_ of mr. j. wells. the illustrations, with the exception of six only, which are derived from acker-mann's _oxford_, are reproduced from the paintings of living artists, mostly by mr. w. matthison, the others by mrs. c. r. walton, walter s. s. tyrwhitt, mr. bayzant, and miss e. s. cheesewright. oxford oldest oxford |oxford is so naturally associated with the idea of a university, and the collegiate buildings which confront one at every turn have such an ancient appearance, that a stranger might be excused for thinking that the university is older than the town, and that the latter grew up as an adjunct to the former. of course, the slightest examination of facts suffices to dissipate this notion. oxford is a town of great antiquity, which may well have been in existence in alfred the great's time, though there is not a shred of documentary evidence to prove that he was, as tradition so long asserted, connected with the foundation of a university there: it certainly existed in the reign of his son and successor, edward the elder, because--and this is the earliest historical mention of the place--the english chronicle tells us that edward took "lundenbyrg and oxnaford and all the lands that were obedient thereto." that was in , a date which marks the first authenticated appearance of oxford on the stage of english history. . there is a passage in domesday book which gives us a fair idea of the size of the town in the conquerors day. it contained over seven hundred houses, but of these, so harshly had the normans treated the place, two-thirds were ruined and unable to pay taxes. william made robert d'oily, one of his followers, governor of oxford. d'oily's is the earliest hand (a heavy one, by the way, as the townsfolk learnt to their cost) whose impress is visible on the oxford of to-day. we may indeed, if we please, attribute a certain piece of wall in the cathedral to a remoter date, but the grim old tower (which appears in the first illustration) is the first building in oxford whose author can with certainty be named. it is all that remains of the castle which robert d'oily built in order to control the surrounding country; and he built his stronghold by the riverside because he thereby dominated the waterway, along which enemies were apt to come, as well as wide tracts of land in every direction. no doubt the hands of the conquered english laboured at the massive structure which was to keep them in subjection. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] a queen was once besieged in the castle, matilda, henry i.'s daughter. when food gave out she made her escape in a romantic manner, so the story tells. the river was frozen and the ground covered with snow. the queen was let down from the tower by night with ropes, clad in white, the better to escape observation. three knights were with her, clad in white also, under whose guidance she reached wallingford on foot, and so escaped king stephen's clutches. to the period of the norman conquest belongs also the tower of st. michaels church, in the cornmarket. it has been usual to describe this edifice as saxon; but antiquaries incline to think that if robert d'oily did not build st. michael's tower, he at least repaired it. this tower formed a part of the city wall, and from its narrow windows arrows may have rained upon advancing foes. adjoining it was bocardo, the old north-gate of the city, whose upper chamber was long used as a prison. nothing of bocardo now remains; but robert d'oily's handiwork is traceable, as many think, in the crypt and chancel of st. peter-in-the-east and in the chancel arch at holywell. in these buildings, then, the history of norman oxford is written, so far as history can be written in stone; yet here and there about the city are to be seen structures which, although two or three centuries younger, have an appearance hardly less venerable. year after year the aged walls and portals are thronged with fresh generations of the youth of england; and it is in this combination of youth and age that no little of the charm of oxford lies. we speak within the limitations of mortality: but, could we escape them for a moment, "immortal age beside immortal youth" might be her most appropriate description. |when did the university come into existence? that is a question which many people would like to have answered, but which still, like brutus, "pauses for a reply." it is to the last degree improbable that we shall ever know. there were teachers and learners in oxford at an early date, but so there were in many other english towns; the plant struck deeper in oxford than elsewhere, that is all that one can say. there are various indications that in the twelfth century the town had acquired a name for learning. in , giraldus cambrensis, who had written a book about ireland and wanted to get it known, came and read his manuscript aloud at oxford, where, as he tells us, "the clergy in england chiefly flourished and excelled in clerkly lore." that was fifty years after the death of king henry the scholar, who--was it only a coincidence?--had a residence in oxford. it is pleasant to find oxford students, even in those early days, with ears attuned to hearing "some new thing." "doctors of the different faculties," we are told, were among giraldus' auditors: a fact which shows that learning was already getting systematised. a little later it has clothed itself in corporate form, and possesses a chancellor. that official (when, and by whom appointed, is the mystery) is first mentioned in , and we can henceforth look upon the university as a living body. he is named in connection with the first recorded "town and gown" row, when the citizens of oxford took two clerks and hung them. the papal legate (this was in the evil days of king john) intervened, and the citizens were very properly rebuked and fined. a century passed before "the gown" had a building set specially apart for the transaction of their affairs. then, in , bishop cobham of worcester added a chapel to the north-east corner of st. mary's, and gave it to the university as a house of congregation. the office of proctor had already been instituted, and that functionary had plenty of students to employ his time-- , one writer assures us, but him we cannot credit. a fourth of that number is a liberal estimate. they lived in halls and lodgings, a hard and an undisciplined life, preyed upon by the townsfolk and biting their thumbs at them in return (whence collisions frequently ensued) until walter de merton devised the college system, to the no small advantage of all concerned. [illustration: ] benefactions poured in upon the several colleges, but the greater institution was not forgotten. in the divinity school, within whose walls latimer and ridley defended their opinions, and charles ii.'s parliament debated, the university possesses, as is fit and proper, the most beautiful room in oxford and one of the most beautiful in england. the style is perpendicular and the ceiling is particularly admirable. together with the fine room above it, in which duke humphrey's manuscripts were housed, the divinity school was completed in . those six hundred manuscripts of humphrey, duke of gloucester, which he bestowed on the university, had a sad history. they were dispersed by edward vi.'s commissioners, who judged them to be popish in tendency, and only four of them were ever restored to their old home. nevertheless, duke humphreys gift was the origin of the bodleian library. one does not like to think what the library was like in the days which followed, when its manuscripts were scattered abroad and its shelves sold; but in the last years of the sixteenth century there arose a man who took pity upon its desolation. this was sir thomas bodley, fellow of merton, a man of travel and affairs, who devoted the last years of his life to the creation of what is now one of the most famous libraries in existence. it has ever been the delight of scholars since the days of james i., who wished he might be chained to the library, as some of the books were. [illustration: ] the original chamber did not long suffice to contain the volumes; an east and then a west wing were added, the latter over archbishop laud's convocation house ( ) which superseded cobham's chapel. from these the books overflowed into various rooms in the old schools quadrangle, which had been rebuilt in james i.'s reign. further space was gained in , when the radcliffe, set free by the removal of its collection of scientific works to the new museum, was lent to the bodleian; and again in , on the opening of the new examination schools (sketched by mr. matthison), when the old schools were rendered available for the uses of the library. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] the various public buildings belonging to the university erected during the nineteenth century, such as the taylor institution, the university art galleries, the new museum, and the indian institute, can hardly escape attracting the attention of visitors to oxford. it remains to say a word of two older structures, which appear side by side in mr. matthison's next drawing--the clarendon building and the sheldonian theatre. [illustration: ] the clarendon building was designed by vanbrugh, and completed in . it is named after the author of the _history of the rebellion_, and was partially built out of the profits of the copyright of that work, which clarendon's son presented to the university. it was the home of the university press until , and is now occupied by the offices of various university boards. the sheldonian theatre, designed by sir christopher wren, is associated with less tranquil occupations. it is here that honorary degrees are conferred and the encænia held; here the _terrce filius_, a licensed jester, used to hurl his witticisms at whomsoever he pleased; and here, in later times, the occupants of the undergraduates' gallery have endeavoured to keep up his tradition. here, too, convocation sometimes meets, when a burning question is to be discussed and masters of arts assemble in their hundreds. on such occasions the sheldonian has been known to be as full of clamour as at the encaenia. it is perhaps pleasanter to view wren's stately building when it is void alike of undergraduate merriment and of graduate contention. st. mary's church [illustration: ] |although st. mary's, being a parish church, cannot be numbered among the buildings which are university property, it has been almost as closely connected as any of them with the life and history of the university. cobham's chapel, as has been already said, was the first house of congregation; and in the room above it the university kept its manuscripts, until duke humphrey's library was built. the chancel and nave, moreover, were used by the gownsmen for both religious and secular purposes; and it is strange to reflect that consecrated walls heard not only sermons and disputations, but the jests of the _terrce filius_ and the uproar which they excited. it was only when the sheldonian was built ( ) that st. mary's ceased to be the scene of the "act"--the modern encænia--and was restored to its original intention. [illustration: ] the porch, with its spiral columns and statue of the virgin and child, is much later than the rest of the building, being the work of dr. owen, archbishop laud's chaplain. architecturally it is not in keeping with the nave and spire, but in itself, especially when the creeper which en-wreathes it takes on its autumnal colour, it is very beautiful. it was found necessary, in , to restore the spire, which with the pinnacles at its base is the special glory of st. mary's. the church is intimately connected with the religious history of the nation. here keble preached the famous assize sermon, which is regarded as the beginning of the oxford movement; here, too, newman, before he withdrew to his retirement at littlemore, preached those many sermons to whose spiritual force men of all schools of thought have borne witness. a later vicar was dean burgon, to whose memory the west window was put up in . but cranmer's connection with st. mary's transcends all its other associations. on september , , he was here put on trial for his religious opinions, which he defended with as much ability as courage. he was then recommitted to his prison, and in december rome pronounced him guilty. the hardships of his imprisonment told upon his resolution, and he was induced to write several letters of submission, in which his so-called errors were recanted. on march , , he was once more brought to st. mary's. his life was to be taken, but he was to crown his humiliation by a public confession. placed upon a wooden stage over against the pulpit, he had to hear a sermon, at the close of which he was to speak. his fortitude returned, and to the amazement of all he recanted his recantation. "as for the pope"--these were his memorable words--"i utterly refuse him, as christ's enemy and antichrist, with all his false doctrine; and as for the sacrament, i believe as i have taught in my book against the bishop of winchester. and for as much as my hand offended, writing contrary to my heart, my hand shall first be punished therefore; for, may i come to the fire, it shall be first burned." he was hurried off to the stake, and there "lifted his left hand to heaven, and thrust his right into the bitter flame; and crying in his deep voice, more than once, 'this hath offended--this unworthy hand!' so held it till it was all burn'd, before the flame had reach'd his body." the cathedral [illustration: ] |at the east end of the choir aisle of the cathedral there is a portion of the wall which is possibly the oldest piece of masonry in oxford, for it is thought to be a part of the original church of st. frideswyde, on whose site the cathedral church of christ (to give its full title) now stands. even so it is not possible to speak with historical certainty of the saint or of the date of her church, which was built for her by her father, so the legend says, when she took the veil; though the year may be provisionally accepted as the last year of her life. st. frideswyde's was a conventual church, with a priory attached, and both were burnt down in , but rebuilt by ethelred. how much of his handiwork survives in the present structure it is not easy to determine; but the norman builders of the twelfth century effected, at any rate, such a transformation that no suggestion of saxon architecture is obtruded. their work went on for some twenty years, under the supervision of the then prior, robert of cricklade, and the church was consecrated anew in . the main features of the interior--the massive pillars and arches--are substantially the same to-day as the builders left them then. the priory was surrendered to henry viii. in , who made it over to wolsey. that cardinal, in his zeal for the new college, which he now proceeded to found, shewed little respect for the old church. he practically demolished its west end to make room for his building operations. the truncated church was used as a chapel for his students, until the new and magnificent one which he had planned should be completed. that edifice was never built. wolsey was disgraced, and the king took over st. frideswyde's, to be the cathedral church of his newly created diocese of oxford. from this date, then, , it is a cathedral, but a college chapel also; for henry was content that the one building should serve the two purposes. the cathedral was restored in the seventeenth century and again in the nineteenth, with considerable alterations. it is hardly worth while here to enumerate these in their entirety; but when one sees in old engravings the beautiful east window, put up in the fourteenth century, which was removed at the time of sir gilbert scott's restoration, it is impossible not to regret a change which appears to be quite unjustifiable. at the same time it may be readily admitted that the east end, designed on norman lines, which the architect substituted, has considerable beauty, and harmonises with the general tone of the building. regret is unavailing, and it is perhaps wiser to console oneself with the reflection that at any rate things might have been worse. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] the cathedral is so hemmed in by the various buildings of christ church that it is difficult to obtain a comprehensive view from the outside. perhaps one sees it best from merton fields, with the beautiful rose window prominently visible. even so the cathedral is in part hidden by the ancient refectory of st. frideswyde's (long since converted into rooms). this is the view, sketched from the nearer foreground of the canon's garden, which appears in mr. matthison's drawing, only that the rose window is hidden by trees. the spire--or spire and tower combined--no longer holds the bells which chimed originally in osney abbey, on the river's farther side; they were removed to the new belfry (completed in ), which appears to the left of the refectory. we are now to speak of the interior of the building. it is sketched from various points of view in the accompanying six illustrations: but twice as many would not suffice to exhaust its interest. at no time does the nave appear more impressive than when a shaft of sunlight strikes across the massive columns; and miss cheesewright has sought to fix upon her canvas the charm of such a moment. the lady chapel was added early in the thirteenth century; here are enshrined the remains of st. frideswyde, which were moved several times before they reached their final resting-place. the latin chapel dates from the fourteenth century, and is full of interest. some of its carved woodwork is to be referred to wolsey's time, and it contains the tombs, among others, of lady elizabeth montacute, the chapels reputed builder, and of sir george nowers, a comrade-in-arms of the black prince. other notable tombs in various parts of the cathedral are those of robert burton, author of the anatomy of melancholy; bishop berkeley, the metaphysician and upholder of the virtues of tar-water; bishop king, last abbot of osney and first bishop of oxford; dean liddell and dr. pusey. a window in the south transept depicts the murder of thomas à becket, whose head has been obliterated, by the order, it is said, of henry viii. another window in the same transept commemorates canon liddon. the art of burne-jones has contributed not a little to the cathedral's beauty. in the east window of the latin chapel he has set forth the romantic story of st. frideswyde. another of the windows which he designed is at the east end of the lady chapel, and serves as a memorial of mr. vyner, who was murdered by greek brigands in ; another, at the east end of the north aisle of the choir, commemorates st. cecilia, with which corresponds a "st. catherine of alexandria" in the south aisle, put up in memory of miss edith liddell, daughter of dean liddell. lastly, at the west end of this aisle, the artist has chosen "faith, hope, and charity" as his subject. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] the cloister and chapter-house (thirteenth century) must not be overlooked. the entrance to the chapter-house is by a singularly fine norman doorway. the cloister saw the unworthy degradation of archbishop cranmer, after the pope had pronounced him guilty of heresy. enough has perhaps been said to shew intending visitors to oxford that the interest of the cathedral is both great and varied. to those who already know it, these hints will seem a poor and inadequate attempt to express its manifold charm, but the pictures may serve to emphasise their vivid recollections. those who have yet to make acquaintance with it will perhaps exclaim, as the queen of sheba did of solomon's wisdom and prosperity, "behold, the half was not told me." [illustration: ] [illustration: ] the streets of oxford |where is the centre, the [greek words] of oxford? the average undergraduate will probably place it within the walls of his own college; but we, detached observers whose salad days, presumably, are over, look for a definition worthy of more catholic acceptance. to us oxford is not a city of colleges only, but of noble streets and wide spaces. them it is our purpose to explore, not with the hasty stride of one bound for lecture-room, or cricket-ground, or river, but leisurely and with discrimination; we are ready to be chidden for curiosity, so we incur not the gravamen of indifference. where, then, shall we start on our pilgrimage, and from what centre? if there be in any city a place where four principal roads meet, as at the cross in gloucester, we may listen there for the pulsations of that city's heart. such a place there is in oxford, carfax,--_quatre voies_,--the spot where four ways meet. this, not too arbitrarily, we will name the centre of oxford, and thence will wend upon our pilgrimage. but let us pause a moment, before we set out, at the parting of the ways. the old church of st. martin's at carfax was pulled down in , and only the tower left. st. martin's was the church of the city fathers, as st. mary's was (and is) the church of the university. nowadays the civic procession winds its way to all saints, a nearer neighbour of st. mary's. such propinquity would have sorted ill with the manners of mediaeval oxford, when the enmity of town and gown, at times quiescent, was never wholly quelled. in an age when the clerks, regular and secular, fell out among themselves in the precincts of st. mary's, even to the shedding of blood, it is idle to look for a more civil temper in the burgesses: and the bells of carfax and st. mary's summoned those who frequented them to battle as well as to prayer. they rang out with the former intention on the feast of st. scholastica in . it is sad to record that the quarrel arose in a tavern, where two gownsmen abused the vintner for serving them with wine of wretched quality. the conflict which ensued was of a very deadly nature. the scholars held their own until evening, when the citizens called the neighbouring villagers of cowley and headington to their aid, and the gown were routed. as many as forty students were slain, and twenty-three townsmen. then edward . took steps to protect the men of learning, lowering, among other measures, the tower of carfax, because they complained that in times of combat the townsmen retired thither as to a castle, and from its summit grievously annoyed and galled them with arrows and stones. the burgesses also were forced to attend annually at st. mary's church, when mass was offered for the souls of the slain, bearing on their persons sundry marks of degradation; and though these were subsequently done away, it was only in that they were excused the indignity of attending the commemorative service. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] such are some of the memories evoked by the tower of carfax, the best view of which is given in mr. matthison's first drawing. the second illustration is from a point rather farther to the eastward. both give a glimpse of the mitre hotel, most picturesque of old oxford hostelries, and the second a part of the front of all saints. at this point we may for a moment leave the high street (which we have begun to traverse, half insensibly, under the artist's guidance) and wander down "the turl," as turl street is commonly called. "turl" is said to be a corruption of thorold, and thorold to have been the name of a postern-gate in the old city walls. the quiet old street has colleges on either hand, lincoln, exeter, and jesus. retracing our footsteps, we get the fine view of all saints which is given in the third illustration. the history of this church, known originally as all hallows, goes back to the twelfth century, but the present building, designed by dr. aldrich, a former dean of christ church, has only been in existence since , the old one having been destroyed in by the fall of its spire. the present graceful tower and spire are a worthy memorial of dean aldrich's versatility. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] we now return to our exploration of "the high," whose magnificence of outline become more and more apparent as one walks eastwards. it was a poet bred at cambridge, no less a poet than wordsworth, whom the manifold charm of oxford tempted "to slight his own beloved cam"; and he it is who has written the most quotable description of "the high" in brief. "the streamlike windings of that glorious street," he writes: and indeed its curve suggests nothing so much as the majestic bend of some noble river. we may cite, too, sir walter scott's testimony, who claimed that the high street of edinburgh is the most magnificent in great britain, _except the high street of oxford_. it is not at all difficult to assent to this opinion. as the view gradually unfolds itself, we have on our left successively the new front of brasenose, st. mary's, all souls, queen's, and magdalen; on our right the long, dark front of university, and many old dwelling-houses, whose architecture does not shame their situation. looking backward for a moment at queen's college (perhaps when the west is rosy, as in mr. matthison's drawing), one sees substantially the same view which delighted wordsworth in ; and we, if we are wise, shall take as much delight in it as he. many thousand times since then has the sun set behind the spires of st. mary's and all saints, but the unaltered prospect obliterates the intervening years, and we are at one with the great poet in his admiration. contrast is always pleasant, and one may reach broad street (which certainly must not be neglected) by several thoroughfares totally unlike "the high." we may traverse long wall street, with magdalen grove on our right, a pleasance hidden from the wayfarer by a high wall, but visible to such as lodge in upper rooms on the other side of the way; thence along holywell street, with its queer medley of old houses, many of them pleasing to the eye. or, still greater contrast, we may go by queen's and new college lanes, with their rectangular turns and severe masonry on either side. or, again, we may go through the radcliffe square with its massive buildings on every hand--the radcliffe dome in the centre, girt about with st. mary's, brasenose, all souls, and the old schools. in any case we find ourselves, at the last, in broad street. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] it is a wide and quiet street, with comparatively little traffic, a street dear to meditation. some such suggestion is conveyed by mr. matthison's sketch. he has not given us here the fronts of balliol, trinity, or exeter,--views of the first two will be found later on,--but just the old houses (the one in dark relief is kettell hall, built by a president of trinity in the seventeenth century) asleep in the sunshine, with the sheldonian on the right, whose guardian figure-heads, traditionally said to represent the twelve cæsars, seem by the expression of their stony countenances to be thinking hard of nothing in particular. at the other end of broad street, marked by a flat cross in the roadway, is the spot where tradition says the martyrs suffered for their faith. [illustration: ] their memorial is a little distance off, in the neighbouring street of st. giles'. it is an effective and graceful structure, with characteristic statues of cranmer, latimer, and ridley, and an inscription stating the manner of their death and the reasons for their martyrdom. it was erected in , by public subscription, when also the north aisle of the adjacent church of st. mary magdalen was rebuilt out of the same fund. the memorial appears twice in mr. matthison's drawings; once at the approach of evening, looking towards the city, and once as it is seen in full daylight, with the widening vista of st. giles' street in the background. st. giles' is surely the widest street in the three kingdoms; broad street is narrow when compared with it. each september it is the scene of what is said to be the largest and the oldest fair in england. but we have not chosen a fair-day for our pilgrimage. the river |if the "towers of julius" are, as gray called them, "london's lasting shame," the river is the lasting pride of oxford. when does "the river" cease to be isis and become thames? one might as well ask when it ceases to be thames and becomes isis. the term is probably not used out of oxford, and with much vagueness there. matthew arnold speaks of "the stripling thames at bablock-hythe" (a very lovely ferry higher up than oxford), and at abingdon nobody talks about the isis. the use of the name is one of the odd and pleasant conservatisms of oxford. then, again, there are two rivers in oxford, according to the map, thames and cherwell; but to the undergraduate there are three--"the river," "the upper river," and "the cher." for the sake of strangers it may be well to elucidate this enigma. "the river" is that part of the thames which begins at folly bridge and ends at sandford, except that on the occasion of "long courses" and commemoration picnics it is prolonged as far as nuneham. it is understood subsequently to pass through several counties and reach eventually the german ocean. you do not go upon "the river" commonly for amusement, but for stern and serious work. you aspire to a thwart in your college "torpid" first, then in your college "eight," with the fantastic possibility of a place in the "trials" or--crown of all--in the 'varsity "eight" on some distant and auspicious day! it is no child's-play that is involved, as every oarsman knows. "the river" is an admirable school of self-control and self-denial, and "training"--long may it flourish!--is one of the best of disciplines. it has been said, and with truth, that boating-men are the salt of undergraduate society. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] the "torpids" are rowed in march--you will appreciate this fact if you are rowing "bow" and a hailstorm comes on--in eight-oared boats with fixed seats. the name bestowed on them seems a little unkind. the "eights" come off in the summer term, when sliding seats are used--to the greater comfort of the oarsmen, and the greater gratification of the lookers-on, for this rowing is out of all comparison prettier, and of course the boats travel at a greater pace. both "eights" and "torpids," as most people are aware, are bumping races; that is, the boats start each at a given distance from the one behind it, and the object is to bump the boat in front, and so bump one s way to that proudest of all positions, "the head of the river." a bump in front of the barges (which mr. matthison has sketched), following a long and stern chase from iffley, is a thing to live for. west of folly bridge "the river" might as well, for all the ordinary undergraduate knows of it, sink for some distance, like a certain classic stream, beneath the ground. venturesome explorers tell of a tract of water put to base mechanical uses, flanked by dingy wharves and overlooked by attic windows. but to most boating-men "the river" ends at salter's, only to reappear in the modified form and style of "the upper river" at port meadow. "the upper river" is some distance from everything else, but it is well worth the journey to port meadow. there is nothing strenuous about "the upper river." it always seems afternoon there, and a lazy afternoon. the standard of oarsmanship may not be very high, but no one is in a hurry and no one is censorious. to enjoy the upper river as it deserves to be enjoyed, you should have laboured at the torpid oar a lent term, and have found yourself not required (this year) for the eight. you know quite enough of rowing, in such a case, to cut a figure on the upper river; but you will not want to cut it. if you appreciate your surroundings properly, you will want to sit in the stern while somebody else does the rowing; or, if you take an oar, you will want to pull in leisurely fashion and to look about you as you please, in the blissful absence of raucous injunctions to "keep your eyes in the boat." there is much that is pleasant to look upon--the wide expanse of port meadow on the right, on the towpath willows waving in the wind, and on the water here and there the white sail of a centre-board. as you draw near godstow, you may see cattle drinking, knee-deep in the stream; you may land and refresh yourself, if you will, at the "trout" at godstow; may visit the ruins of the nunnery, with their memories of "fair rosamond;" or, leaning on the bridge-rail over godstow weir, lulled by the ceaseless murmur of the water, may muse upon the vanity of mere ambition and the servitude of such as row in college eights. then, if the day be young enough, you may go on to eynsham or to bablock-hythe, and perhaps afoot to stanton-harcourt, a most lovely village; and returning at dusk, when the stream appears to widen indefinitely as the light fails, you will vow that for sheer peace and enjoyment there is nothing like the upper river. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] unless, indeed, it be the cherwell. this little stream, which flows into the isis near the last of the barges, while it winds about christ church meadow, magdalen, and mesopotamia, is edged about, with shadowy walks; but once clear of the parks, it is embedded in grassy and flower-laden banks, through which your boat passes with a lively sense of exploration. presently, at a break in all this greenery, you come abreast of a grey stone building, with ancient gables and air of reposeful dignity. instinctively your oar-blades rest upon the water, for so much beauty demands more than a moment's admiration. it is water eaton hall, one of those smaller elizabethan manor-houses which have survived the violence of the rebellion and the neglect of impoverished owners. all about its aged masonry is the growth and freshness of the spring. oxford is several miles away, but even so you are reminded of her special charm--the association of reverend age with youth's perennial renewal. merton college [illustration: ] [illustration: ] |merton is in several respects the most interesting of the colleges of oxford. in the first place, it is the oldest; for though the original endowments of university and balliol were bestowed a little earlier, merton was the first college to have a corporate existence, regulated and defined by statute. with the granting of merton's statutes in , a new era of university life began. from being casual sojourners in lodgings and halls, students from this date tended more and more to be gathered into organised, endowed, and dignified societies, where discipline was one of the factors of education. such is oxford's debt to walter de merton, chancellor of england and bishop of rochester, who died by a fall from his horse in fording a river in his diocese, and was buried in rochester cathedral. his tomb there has twice been renovated by the piety of the college which he founded. his statutes are preserved at merton, and were consulted as precedents when other colleges were founded, at cambridge as well as at oxford. "by the example which he set," runs the inscription on his tomb, "he is the founder of all existing colleges." another great distinction of merton is its library (whose interior appears in mrs. waltons sketch), which was built in , by william rede, bishop of chichester, and is the oldest library in the kingdom. in monasteries and other houses where learning took refuge, books had hitherto been kept in chests, an arrangement which must have had its drawbacks, considering the weight of the volumes of those days. mr. matthison's first drawing shews the college as seen from merton street, with the imposing tower of the chapel in the background. a very fine view of the buildings of merton, in their full extent, is obtained from christ church meadow. to speak of them in detail, the muniment room is the oldest collegiate structure in oxford, and possibly dates from the lifetime of the founder. the hall gateway, with its ancient oak door and enormous iron hinges, is of the same epoch. of the three quadrangles the small one to the north (which contains the library) is the oldest. the front quadrangle opens by a magnificent archway into the inner, or fellows' court, built in in the late gothic style, its south gate surmounted with pillars of the several greek orders. the common room ( ) was the first room of the kind to be opened in oxford. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] the beautiful chapel has rather the appearance of a parish church, which indeed it is. st. john the baptists parish, however, is so minute as hardly to need, in a city of many churches, a place of worship all to itself, and the building was assigned to merton in the last decade of the thirteenth century, with the proviso that one of the chaplains should discharge such parochial duties as might arise. in the ante-chapel are the monuments of the famous sir thomas bodley, sir henry savile, once master, and antony wood, greatest of oxford antiquarians. wood (who died in ) was associated with merton all his life. he was born in the house opposite the college entrance, called postmasters' hall, and there he passed most of his days. it is from him that we get a great deal of our information about early oxford. royalty has repeatedly enjoyed the hospitality of merton, and here is wood's account of a visit paid by queen catherine, wife of henry viii. "she vouchsafed to condescend so low as to dine with the merton-ians, for the sake of the late warden rawlyns, at this time almoner to the king, notwithstanding she was expected by other colleges." elizabeth and her privy council were equally gracious, and were entertained after dinner with disputations performed by the fellows. one would like to know what subjects were disputed, and what the queen thought of her entertainment. when charles i.'s court came to oxford, queen henrietta maria occupied the warden's lodgings, which were again tenanted by charles ii.'s queen, when the court fled from plague-stricken london. merton has had great men among her fellows, but none greater than john wycliffe; and among her postmasters (so the scholars are called here) no name captivates our sympathies more readily than that of richard steele, trooper and essayist, the friend of addison and the husband of prue. university college |it was long and hotly maintained that university college was founded by alfred the great, and by celebrating its thousandth anniversary in the college would seem to have accepted this pious opinion. the claim was raised as far back as , when the college, being engaged in a lawsuit about a part of its estates, tried to ingratiate itself with richard ii. by representing that its founder was his predecessor, alfred, and that bede and john of beverley had been among its students. now, bede and john of beverley died about a century before alfred was born. _ex pede herculem_. the alfred tradition need not keep us longer. university college owes its existence to william of durham, who, at his death in , beqeathed to the university the sum of three hundred and ten marks for the use of ten or more _masters_ (at that time the highest academical title) to be natives of durham or its vicinity. certain tenements were purchased, one of them on a part of the site of brasenose, and here, in , durham's scholars first assembled; but only in were they granted powers of self-government. the recent foundation of merton no doubt suggested the idea of bestowing a corporate life on what had hitherto been known as "university hall." durham's scholars removed to their present locality in . one of the earliest benefactors whom "univ." (as this college is familiarly termed in oxford) is bound to remember is walter skirlaw, who became bishop of durham in . he ran away from his home in youth in order to study at oxford, and his parents heard no more of him (according to his biographer) till he arrived at the see of durham. he then sought them out, and provided for their old age. another benefactor ( ) was joan davys, wife of a citizen of oxford, who gave estates for the support of two logic lecturers, and for increasing the diet of the master and fellows. had mr. cecil rhodes heard of this lady? to touch on the masters of "univ.," a curious career was that of obadiah walker, who lost his fellowship in commonwealth times for adherence to the church of england; later on was made master and turned roman catholic; enjoyed the favour of james ii.; and lost his mastership at the revolution for adherence to the church of rome. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] of the present buildings of the college none is of earlier date than the seventeenth century. the two quadrangles form a grand front towards the high street, with a tower over each gateway at equal distances from the extremities. above the gateways are statues of queen anne and queen mary, on the outside; two more, within, represent james ii. and dr. radcliffe. it was mainly at the cost of john radcliffe, a member of the college, that the smaller quadrangle was completed. other famous members were the brothers scott, afterwards lords stowell and eldon; sir william jones, the great oriental scholar; and sir roger newdigate, responsible for so many thousand heroic couplets, who gave the handsome chimney-piece in the hall. it is curious to notice, by the way, that the fireplace stood in the centre of this room until . the common room contains two specimens of an out-of-the-way art, portraits of henry iv. and robert dudley, earl of leicester, burnt in wood by dr. griffith, a former master. the beautiful monument to the poet shelley, set up in the college in , is the gift of lady shelley. its honoured position within the walls of the foundation which drove him out so hastily and harshly is indeed a fitting emblem of "the late remorse of love." balliol college |this college was originated about by john de balliol, a baron of durham, whose son for four years occupied the throne of scotland. but inasmuch as john de balliol only made provision for four students, and that as penance for an outrage, the greater credit attaches to his wife dervorguilla, who endowed a dozen more and hired them a lodging close to st. mary magdalen church, on the site where part of the present college stands. devorguilla gave her scholars their first statutes in . she bade them live temperately, and converse with one another in the latin tongue. truth to tell, as the revenues at first yielded each scholar only eightpence a week, riotous living seemed hardly practicable. benefactors, however, presently stepped in, notably sir philip somervyle of staffordshire, who in raised the weekly allowance to elevenpence, and to fifteenpence in case victuals were dear. the grateful college accepted from sir philip a new body of statutes, in which the now familiar title, "master of balliol," makes its first appearance, a title associated twenty years afterwards with the honoured name of john wycliffe. among later benefactors may be mentioned peter blundell, founder of the devonshire school which bears his name; lady elizabeth periam (a sister of francis bacon); and john snell, a native of ayrshire,--it is to his endowment that balliol owes her most distinguished scotsmen, such as adam smith, lockhart (sir walter scott's son-in-law and biographer), and archbishop tait. balliol was an early friend to the new learning, and fostered the scholarly tastes of humphrey, duke of gloucester, son of henry iv., and tiptoft, earl of worcester (to name but two of her most prominent humanists). duke humphrey left his books to the university, six hundred in number--a very large collection for those days, when as yet caxton had not revolutionised the world. and in reformation days, when the humanities were called to account, learning found a zealous supporter in cuthbert tunstall, bishop of durham, who had been bred at balliol. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] the annals of the college during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries are not particularly distinguished. after the restoration balliol men seem to have been considerably addicted to malt liquors, and much ale does not conduce to profound study. but modern balliol men might apply to their own use the words of dr. ingram's famous song, "who fears to speak of ' ?" for it was in that dr. parsons became master of the college, and with his advent began the great days of balliol. parsons, with two other heads of houses, established the examination system, which has been so much belauded and so much abused. it was soon apparent that balliol tutors had the knack of equipping men to face the ordeal of "the schools"; the college speedily came to the front, and its intellectual pre-eminence in oxford during the nineteenth century is now universally admitted. men trained at balliol during this period occupied and still occupy some of the very highest positions in the state. not to mention the living, whose fame is in the mouths of all men, some of the most prominent names are those of lords coleridge, bowen, and peel (formerly speaker of the house of commons), sir robert morier, and archbishop temple. matthew arnold and clough were undergraduates at balliol with benjamin jowett, afterwards its most famous master; and, to balance the severity of these poets, the lighter muse of calverley sojourned for a time within its walls. the buildings of balliol, which mr. matthison has sketched from four points of view, are extensive, but not conspicuously beautiful. the front towards broad street was rebuilt in by mr. waterhouse. old prints assure us that it had previously a forbidding and almost prison-like aspect. mr. matthison calls attention to the fact that this picture shows the spot where the martyrs were burned. the automobile in the foreground may suggest to the thoughtful reader that martyrdom is no longer by fire. the drawing from st. giles' perhaps conveys a pleasanter impression. the third shews us that part of the college known as "fisher's buildings," erected at the cost of a former fellow in . the fourth drawing is of the garden quadrangle with the chapel on the left (rebuilt in ); here the surroundings are more attractive; we are looking on "a grove of academe," in which vigorous minds may still, as heretofore, grow happily towards their maturity. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] exeter college |this college," wrote fuller the historian, in words which exeter men will approve, "consisteth chiefly of cornish and devonshire men, the gentry of which latter, queen elizabeth used to say, were courtiers by their birth. and as these western men do bear away the bell for might and sleight in wrestling, so the scholars here have always acquitted themselves with credit in _palaestra literaria!'_ the western college was founded in by walter de stapledon, bishop of exeter, who twelve years later met his death as a supporter of edward ii., when that king was overthrown and murdered. a later and liberal patron was sir william petre, father of dorothy wadham, a statesman of the tudor period. of the ancient buildings of exeter hardly anything remains. the hall dates from the seventeenth century, the fronts to the turl and broad streets from the nineteenth. the present chapel is the third in which exeter men have worshipped. designed by sir gilbert scott on the model of the sainte chapelle in paris, it is certainly the most attractive of the college buildings. its interior is richly decorated, and contains a tapestry representing "the visit of the magi," the work of burne-jones and william morris, formerly undergraduates of exeter. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] among interesting members of this foundation may be cited dr. prideaux, rector from to , who began residence at exeter as a kitchen-knave, and lived to be a bishop; the first lord shaftesbury, dryden's "achitophel"; the marquis of winchester, a loyal cavalier, whose epitaph by the same poet may be read in englefield church, berkshire; william browne, author of _britannia's pastorals_; and sir simon baskerville (ob. ), an eminent physician, who would take no fee from any clergyman under the rank of dean. the fellows' gardens, a secluded and beautiful spot, contains two noted trees, a large chestnut known as "heber's tree," from the fact that it overshadowed his rooms in brasenose, and "dr. kennicott's fig tree." dr. kennicott, the great hebrew scholar, regarded this tree as peculiarly his own. during his proctorate, some irreverent undergraduates stole its fruit, upon which dr. kennicott caused a board to be hung upon it, inscribed "the proctor's fig." next morning it was discovered that someone had substituted the audacious legend, "a fig for the proctor." [illustration: ] [illustration: ] oriel college [illustration: ] |oriel college was founded by adam de brome, almoner to king edward ii., in . he was rector of st. mary's, whose spire forms with the dome of the radcliffe a background to the view of oriel street, and obtained leave from the king to transfer the church and its revenues to his college. the college originally had the same title as the church, but five years after its foundation it received from king edward iii. a messuage known as _la oriole_ (a title of disputed meaning), and from this date was renamed "oriel college." the front quadrangle, whose exterior and interior are here depicted, was erected in the first half of the seventeenth century. viewed from without, it has an air of quiet dignity; but the visitor will be even better pleased when he has passed the porters lodge. a striking feature is the central flight of steps, with a portico, by which the hall is reached. on either side of the statues of the two kings (edward ii. and charles i.) stretches a trio of finely moulded windows, flanked by an oriel to right and left. mr. matthison clearly made his drawing when the "quad." was gay with flowers and eights-week visitors, but at no season is it anything but beautiful. the garden quadrangle, which lies to the north and includes the library, was built during the eighteenth century. the adjacent st. mary hall, with its buildings, was recently incorporated with oriel, on the death of its last principal, dr. chase. among famous men nurtured at this college were raleigh, prynne, bishop butler, and gilbert white, the naturalist; but it was in the first half of the nineteenth century that oriels intellectual renown was at its highest. to recall the names of pusey, keble, newman, whately, and thomas arnold suffices to indicate the subject which most preoccupied the oxford of that epoch. oriel seemed fated to be the seat of religious controversy, from the seventeenth century days of provost walter hodges, whose _elihu_, a treatise on the book of job, brought him into suspicion of favouring the sect of hutchinsonians. happily there was some tincture of humour in the differences of those days. when this provost resented the imputation, his detractors told him that a writer on the book of job should take everything with patience. controversy apart, any college might be proud of a group of fellows of whom one became an archbishop, another a really great headmaster, and a third a cardinal. oriel has had poets, too, within her gates, for in a later day clough and matthew arnold won fellowships here. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] but oriel has had no more dutiful son, if liberality is any measure of dutifulness, than cecil rhodes. it is too soon to appraise the value of his scholarship scheme, which provides an oxford education for numerous colonial and foreign students; but his old college, which benefited so largely by the provisions of his will, can have no hesitation in including him among its benefactors. queen's college |opinions will differ as to whether the italian style, of which this college is a fine example, is as suitable for collegiate buildings as the gothic, and whether the contrast which queen's presents to its neighbour, university, is not more striking than pleasing; but the intrinsic splendour of its façade, as viewed from "the high," is indisputable. "no spectacle," said dr. johnson, "is nobler than a blaze"; and those who saw the west wing of the front quadrangle of queen's in flames, one summer night in , must have felt their regrets tempered by admiration, so imposing was the sight. happily the damage was mainly confined to the interior of the building. a fire had already devastated the same wing in . on that occasion, as mr. wells narrates in _oxford and its colleges_, the provost of the day "nearly lost his life for the sake of decorum. he was sought for in vain, and had been given up, when he suddenly emerged from the burning pile, full dressed as usual, in wig, gown, and bands." this recalls cowley's story of a gentleman in the civil wars, who might have escaped from his captors had he not stayed to adjust his perri-wig. less fortunate than the provost, his sense of ceremony cost him his life. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] queen's college was founded by robert eglesfield of cumberland, confessor to philippa, edward iii.'s queen. impressed with the lack of facilities for education among englishmen of the north, he practically restricted the benefits of his foundation to students from the north country, and queen's is still intimately connected with that part of england. philippa did her best for her confessor's institution, and later queens have shewn a similar interest. the statue under the cupola, above the gateway, represents queen caroline. with the exception of the library ( ) and the east side of the inner quadrangle, all the present buildings were erected in the eighteenth century. the library, a handsome room in the classical style, was decorated by grinling gibbons, and contains, as well as a very valuable collection of books, ancient portraits on glass of henry v. and cardinal beaufort. the chapel ( ) was designed by wren, and the front quadrangle by his pupil hawksmoor. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] queen's is tenacious of her old customs. still the trumpet calls the fellows to dinner; still, on christmas day, the boar's head is brought in bedecked with bays and rosemary; a survival, possibly, of the pagan custom by which at yule-tide a boar was sacrificed to freyr, god of peace and plenty. peace and plenty, at any rate, have characterised the annals of queen's; and among those who have enjoyed these good things within her walls may be mentioned "prince hal," addison (before his migration to magdalen), tickell, wycherley, bentham, jeffrey of the _edinburgh review_, and dr. thomson, late archbishop of york. st. edmund hall [illustration: ] |halls for the accommodation of students existed in oxford before colleges were founded, and a few were established subsequently; of these st. edmund hall is the only one which retains its independence. the quaintness and irregular beauty of its buildings may plead with stern reformers for its continued survival. opposite to the side entrance of queen's, st. edmund hall is in another respect under the wing of that college; for queen's has the right of nominating its principal. the origin of st. edmund hall is uncertain, but it is commonly supposed to derive its name from edmund rich, archbishop of canterbury from to . its buildings, grouped round three sides of an oblong quadrangle, date from the middle of the seventeenth century. the first view shews the entrance to the hall, with the interesting old church of st. peter-in-the-east in the background. the crypt and chancel of this church take us back to the times of the conqueror, and may have been the work of robert d'oily, one of william's norman followers, who is known to have built oxford castle. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] in the view of the interior of the quadrangle the building at the back is the library; the abundance of creepers on the left hand adds to the idea of comfort suggested by the homeliness of the architecture. the third illustration shews the hall as seen from st. peter's churchyard. the vicinity of the monuments may serve to remind members of the hall of their mortality. hearne, the antiquary, was a member of st. edmund hall; so also was sir richard blackmore, who was in residence for thirteen years. it was his lot, says johnson, "to be much oftener mentioned by enemies than by friends"; but this is hardly surprising, in view of the interminable epics which he inflicted upon his contemporaries. new college |this college, in respect of its buildings and its endowments, is one of the most splendid in the university. its founder, william of wykeham, rose through the favour of edward iii. to high positions in church and state, being made bishop of winchester in and chancellor of england in the following year. he was a man of affairs, liberal and tolerant, who took delight in building, and had himself great skill in architecture. he had already, before he designed new college, as clerk of the works to edward iii., rebuilt windsor castle. doubtless, zeal for education was one of his incentives; but he must have known a deep gratification, as the work went on, in the growth of the stately buildings which were to perpetuate his name. richard ii.'s sanction was given in , and wykeham's society took possession of its completed home in . during the six years which followed, its founder was occupied with the building of winchester college, the other great institution connected with his name. he died in , in his eightieth year, and was buried in winchester cathedral, having lived long enough to see his two foundations prosperously started upon their several careers. new college, as left by william of wyke-ham, consisted of the chief quadrangle (which includes the chapel, hall, and library), the cloisters with their tower, and the gardens. it is this quadrangle (shewing the chapel) which appears in mr. matthison's first drawing; but it is not quite as wykeham saw it, for the third storey was added, as at brasenose, in the seventeenth century, when the windows also were modernised. passing through this quadrangle, the visitor reaches the garden court, which is also the creation of the seventeenth century, and was built in imitation of the palace of versailles. seen from the garden (as in the second illustration) it certainly has, with its fivefold frontage and its extensive iron palisade, a most imposing appearance. the garden contains a structure older by several centuries than any of the colleges--that fragment of the old city wall which is shewn in mr. matthison's third drawing. its reverse side is visible from the back of long wall street, and another fragment now acts as the wall of merton garden. the city wall existed in its entirety in wykeham's time, though already falling into decay: there is a brief of richard n., issued to the then mayor and burgesses of oxford, wherein the king complains of the ruinous state of the fortifications, and demands that they be at once repaired. he thought of taking refuge in oxford, it appears, if his enemies in france should invade the country. he was soon to learn, at flint castle, how impotent is any masonry to protect a sovereign against subjects whose affections he has estranged. one may climb the old wall in new college garden and think of the days when it was a real defence, when the occupants of the "mural houses" at its base were exempted from all imposts, with the reservation that they should defend the wall with their bodies, in the event of an enemy's assault. on some part of the ground now occupied by the college and its garden stood several of those halls where students lodged in the pre-collegiate days; but the greater part was waste land, strewn with rubbish and haunted by all sorts of bad characters. certainly the whole community benefited, and not wykeham's scholars only, when king and pope sanctioned his undertaking. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] the cloisters, of which two views are given, are singularly beautiful. they were designed, together with the area which they enclose, as a burial-ground for the college. it is unfortunate that many of the brass tablets were removed during the civil war, when the college was used as a garrison. royalist pikes, in those days, were trailed in the quadrangle, and ammunition was stored in cloisters and tower. later on the college was tenanted by soldiers of the commonwealth, who in course of fortifying it did some damage to the buildings. the chapel is perhaps the finest extant specimen of the perpendicular style. it suffered severely during the reformation, when the niches of the reredos were denuded and filled up with stone and mortar, with a coat of plaster over all. in course of time the original east end was rediscovered, and the reredos renewed. by statues were erected in the niches; and as the open timber roof had been replaced in , the whole may now be considered to have been restored, as far as is possible, to its original appearance. the west window (in the ante-chapel) is famous as having been designed by reynolds. an illustration of it is here given. the beauty of the figures and of the colouring is universally admitted. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] the last illustration shews the new buildings, through which is a back entrance to the college, as seen from holywell street. of these it must be said that they are far less interesting than the quaint old street in which they are situated. the best of them is the most recent addition, a fine tower put up in to the memory of a former bursar, mr. robinson. the hall is a fine building, though its original proportions have been altered, not for the better. here on august , , king james i. with his queen and the prince of wales were entertained to dinner; and here on festival days the scholars were bidden by their founder to amuse themselves after supper with singing and with recitations, whose themes were to be "the chronicles of the realm and the wonders of the world." on the walls are portraits of chichele and william of waynflete, members of the college, who were presently to rival, as founders, the munificence of william of wykeham himself; of warham, archbishop of canterbury, friend of erasmus and promoter of humanism; and of sydney smith. the exclusive connection between winchester and new college, which the founder planned, proved in course of time a disadvantage. in half the fellowships and a few scholarships were thrown open to public competition. since then the college has largely increased its numbers, and representatives of all the great schools of england are sojourners within its walls. the founder's motto, "manners makyth man," is of too wide an application to be limited to the members of any one school; and it is permissible to think that william of wykeham, shrewd and liberal-minded as he was, would approve the change. an earlier alteration he would certainly have endorsed. he secured as a special privilege to the fellows of his foundation, that they should be admitted to all degrees in the university without asking any grace of congregation, provided they passed a satisfactory examination in their own college. his object was to impose a severer educational test than that which the university then afforded; when, however, university examinations became a reality, his good intention was nullified. wykehamists pleaded their privilege, and so evaded the ordeal which members of other colleges must undergo. thus was an originally good custom corrupted. the college, to its credit, voluntarily abjured this questionable privilege in ; and is now second only to balliol in the intellectual race. [illustration: ] lincoln college |john flemmynge, bishop of lincoln, was for the greater part of his life a sympathiser with the lollards; but on changing his opinions--for what reason is not known--he founded a college for the express purpose of training divines who should confute their doctrines. such was the origin of lincoln college, in the year . mr. matthison's first picture shews the entrance to the college, as seen from turl street. farther on is a part of the front of exeter, and the spire of its chapel, with trinity in the background. lincolns entrance-tower dates from the founder's time. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] the second gives the interior of the front quadrangle. reference to old engravings, such as that given in chalmers' _history of the colleges, halls, and public buildings of the university of oxford_ ( ), shews the battlements to be a modern addition, and anything but an improvement. the chapel, which stands in the inner court, was built at the expense of dr. john williams, bishop of lincoln and afterwards archbishop of york, and was consecrated on september , . its roof and wainscoting are of cedar, the roof in particular being richly ornamented. the painted windows are also noteworthy. tradition says that they were bought by dr. williams in italy. that at the east end represents six principal events of the gospel narrative, with their corresponding types in the old testament. the following is the complete list:--the creation of man--the nativity of christ; the passage through the red sea--the baptism of christ; the jewish passover--the lord's supper; the brazen serpent in the wilderness--the crucifixion; jonah delivered from the whale--the resurrection; the ascent of elijah in the chariot of fire--the ascension. john wesley spent nine years in lincoln college, being elected fellow in . among its members may be named sir william davenant, poet laureate; and dr. robert sanderson, bishop of lincoln, a man of great piety, learning, and amiability, who forms the theme of one of izaak walton's lives. it is to him that our english liturgy owes the beautiful "prayer for all conditions of men" and "general thanksgiving." a recent rector of lincoln was mark pattison, b.d., who might rival sanderson in learning, though not in the quality of forbearance. his memoirs, posthumously published, contained, with much that was of interest, some unusually outspoken judgments upon his contemporaries in oxford. all souls college |c_ollegium omnium animarum fidelium defunctorum de oxon_. this title expresses one of the purposes for which all souls was founded. it was a chantry first, a home of learning afterwards. an obligation was imposed upon the society to pray for the good estate of the founders, during their lives, and for their souls after their decease; also for the souls of henry v. and the duke of clarence, together with those of all the dukes, earls, barons, knights, esquires, and other subjects of the crown of england who had fallen in the french war; and for the souls of all the faithful departed. to think of all souls is to think of agincourt. as to learning, sixteen of the fellows were directed to study civil and canon law, the rest philosophy, theology, and the arts. the founders were henry chichele, archbishop of canterbury, and king henry vi. chichele is the archbishop who in shakespeare's _king henry v_. urges the king (quite in accordance with history) to vindicate his claims to the crown of france. educated in all the prejudices of his age, he set his face against the followers of wyckliffe; at the same time he protested against the encroachments of rome, and was spoken of in oxford as "the darling of the people, and the foster-parent of the clergy." he was deeply read in the law, and all souls still bears the impress of his legal tastes. the buildings are very extensive, and are grouped around three quadrangles. the first view (which gives also a glimpse of the radcliffe and the old schools) shews the front of the north quadrangle, as seen from st. catherine street, with the windows of the magnificent codrington library. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] but the library is eclipsed, in general opinion, by the chapel. "it is usually observed," says chalmers, "that whatever visitor remembers anything of oxford, remembers the beautiful chapel of all souls, and joins in its praises." it is characterised by dignity and simplicity, and its great reredos has a remarkable history. the chapel was wrecked in reformation days, and the remains of the reredos were covered with plaster in the reign of charles ii. in some workmen accidentally discovered, on removing some of the plaster, the ruins of the now forgotten reredos. it was then reconstructed, and the empty niches refilled with statues of chichele, henry vi., and the great ones of their time. the college also owns a fine sundial, the work of sir christopher wren, who was one of its fellows. the four bible-clerks, as is well known, are the only undergraduates. an all souls' fellowship is now what an oriel fellowship was in the early part of the nineteenth century, the blue ribbon of oxford. since its foundation in the following are a few of the eminent men who have been members of this society:--linacre, sheldon, jeremy taylor, the poet young, blackstone, and bishop heber. magdalen college [illustration: ] |william of waynflete, who founded this college, was brought up in the traditions of william of wykeham, and maintained them most worthily. a member of wykeham's school, and perhaps of new college, he became headmaster of winchester, only leaving it to act as first headmaster of eton, on the foundation of that college by henry vi. like wykeham he lived through troubled times, and like him occupied the see of winchester and was chancellor of england. the latter post he resigned in the last year of henry vi., but remained bishop of winchester until his death in . he was buried in winchester cathedral, where eighty-two years earlier wykeham had been laid to rest. on the present site of magdalen college stood an old hospital, named after st. john the baptist. this hospital, with its grounds, was made over to william of waynflete in ; some remains of its buildings still survive in what is known as the chaplains' quadrangle; and in this hospital the new society found temporary shelter. waynflete did not proceed at once to build his new college; the times were disturbed, and with the victory of the yorkist faction he found himself in some peril. pardoned, however, by edward iv., he was at liberty to carry out his designs. if not his own architect, he certainly superintended the building; and with the exception of the famous tower, the work was completed before his death. in the result, taste has generally decided, what most visitors feel instinctively at first sight, that magdalen is the most beautiful college in oxford. this distinction it owes partly to the perfect proportions of its buildings, and partly to the loveliness of its surroundings. to assure oneself of this, one may take a boat up the cherwell (as the people in mr. matthison's first drawing have done), and, while the sculls rest idly on the water's surface, drink deeply of the beauty of the scene. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] the foundation stone of the famous tower (which from different points of view appears in three more of the illustrations) was laid in . tradition says that it was designed by wolsey, who was about that time bursar of magdalen; and also asserts that a mass for the soul of henry vii. used, before the reformation, to be performed upon the top of the tower on every may-day at early morning. it is certain that a hymn is still sung there annually at that season, as those who are up early enough may hear for themselves. whether one approaches magdalen by the water-way or by "the high"--as in the second illustration--the tower is still the dominant feature of the view. on the left are seen st. swithun's buildings, designed in happy harmony with the older structure. when the lodge is passed, one is confronted with the old stone pulpit (sketched by mrs. walton), from which an open-air sermon was formerly preached on st. john the baptists day. * the court on that occasion used to be fenced round with green boughs, in allusion to st. john's preaching in the wilderness. * this custom has recently been revived. the cloisters are next entered, from which is obtained a splendid view of waynflete's quadrangle and tower (the "founder's tower" of the next illustration). the perfect grace of magdalen is here revealed, and praise becomes superfluous. the chapel, hall, and library open out of this quadrangle. the college choir is among the best in the three kingdoms. many theories have been suggested in explanation of the curious stone figures in the quadrangle, which were put up after waynflete's day. the most reasonable appears to be that which makes them represent the several virtues and vices which members of the college should follow after and eschew. but even so that interpretation seems a little forced which makes the hippopotamus, carrying his young one on his shoulder, emblematic of "a good tutor, or fellow of a college, who is set to watch over the youth of the society, and by whose prudence they are to be led through the dangers of their first entrance into the world." * * _oedipus magdalensis_, in the college library. to speak now of the three remaining illustrations, the first shews the garden, reached from the quadrangle, the exterior of which forms the background of the picture. from here a good view is obtained of the new buildings, a stately eighteenth-century pile, which adjoin the deer park; a part of them, as well as of the deer park, is seen in mr. matthison's sketch. finally, he gives his impression of the college as seen at evening from the entrance of addison's walk, with the tower blue-grey against a paling sky. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] that walk, which commemorates "the famous mr. joseph addison," as esmond called him, was in part, at any rate, laid out in queen elizabeth's day; and here the future essayist may have often strolled and meditated, in the exercise of that gift of "a most profound silence" with which, half in jest, he credited himself. there stood in his time at the entrance of the water-walk an oak, which for centuries had been, according to chalmers, "the admiration of many generations." evelyn, the diarist, commemorates its huge proportions. it was overthrown by a storm in , and a chair made of its wood is preserved in the president's lodgings. magdalen in its time has welcomed many royal visitors, among them edward iv. in , and richard iii. in . richard was so pleased with the disputations provided for his entertainment that he presented the two protagonists (one of them was grocyn, the greek scholar) with a buck apiece and money as well. other guests were arthur, prince of wales, elder son of henry vii., and henry, son of james i., whose great promise was cut short by an early death. cromwell and fairfax dined at magdalen, when they received the degree of d.c.l. in , and, instead of hearing the usual disputations, played at bowls upon the college green. meanwhile the college had educated its fair share of prominent men: wolsey; colet, afterwards dean of st. paul's; cardinal pole; william tyndale, translator of the bible; lyly, whose euphues gave a name to a certain style of writing; and john hampden. a notable president ( ) was dr. laurence humphrey, who was among the genevan exiles in queen mary's time. on his return he retained the genevan dislike for ecclesiastical vestments, but was persuaded to wear them on the occasion of queen elizabeth's visit to oxford. "mr. doctor," said the queen, who was aware of his usual practice, "that loose gown becomes you mighty well. i wonder your notions should be so narrow." [illustration: ] [illustration: ] the life of a college is in general self-contained, but in the last year of james ii.'s reign magdalen becomes for a time the centre of a constitutional struggle. there is no more glorious page in her annals. james ii. had done his best to turn university college into a roman catholic seminary, and had made a professor of that religion dean of christ church. he now sought to impose upon the fellows of magdalen a president of his own choosing, one farmer, a papist, and a man of known bad character. the fellows replied by electing one of their own number, john hough, upon which they were cited before the court of high commission and bullied by judge jeffreys, while houghs election was declared invalid. farmer was so generally discredited that the king did not press his claims, but shortly afterwards nominated in his stead dr. parker, bishop of oxford. when the fellows respectfully refused to accept him, hough and twenty-six fellows were forcibly ejected, as well as many of the "demies" (or scholars) who sympathised with their action. parker died after a few months' tenure of office, when james named gifford, a roman catholic, as his successor. it was only in october , when moved to terror by the declaration of william of orange, that the king, among other concessions, cancelled gifford's appointment and restored dr. hough and the ejected fellows. but then, as we know, all concessions were too late. hough remained president until . during the eighteenth century magdalen was not exempt from the general somnolence which pervaded the university. gibbon's residence there was cut short by his becoming a roman catholic. his harsh judgment of the college, warped as it was, cannot be entirely refuted. famous nineteenth-century members of magdalen were robert lowe, lord selborne, charles reade, and professor mozley. at present it does not look as if the charge of inactivity could ever again be preferred against waynflete's foundation. brasenose college [illustration: ] |the first thing about this college to excite a stranger's curiosity is its name. the explanation is trivial enough. brasenose hall (which was in existence in the thirteenth century and became brasenose college in ) was so called from the brass knocker--the head of a lion with a very prominent nose--which adorned its gateway. in the members of the hall, from whatever reason, migrated into lincolnshire, taking the knocker with them, and set up their rest at stamford. "there is in stamford," wrote antony wood, "a building in st. paul's parish, near to one of the tower gates, called brazenose to this day, and has a great gate, and a wicket, upon which wicket is a head or face of old cast brass, with a ring through the nose thereof. it had also a fair refectory within, and is at this time written in leases and deeds brazen nose." this building was bought by "b. n. c." (to adopt oxford phraseology) in , and the knocker brought back to oxford, none the worse for its prolonged rustication. the college named after this venerable relic owes its foundation to a pair of friends, william smyth, bishop of lincoln, and sir richard sutton of sutton, in the county of cheshire, an ecclesiastically-minded layman, who became steward of the monastery of sion, near brentford. "unmarried himself," the knight's biographer informs us, "and not anxious to aggrandize his family, sir richard sutton bestowed handsome benefactions and kind remembrances among his kinsmen; but he wedded the public, and made posterity his heir." the college which grew up under the personal supervision of these two friends, occupies the ground on which stood no less than eight halls: a fact which seems to shew that these institutions were not large in bulk. the founders purchased brasenose hall, little university hall, salisbury hall, with st. marys entry--a picturesque lane, which appears in the first of mr. matthison's illustrations; and five more. tennyson's phrase, "the tumult of the halls," must have been peculiarly applicable in mediaeval oxford. distinctly mediaeval were the statues of the new foundation; those who drew them up adhered to the training of the schoolmen, and made no provision for the new learning. when john claymond, first president of corpus, endowed six scholarships at brasenose (in ), he stipulated that the scholars appointed should attend the lectures of the latin and greek readers of his own college. however, brasenose had her own lecturers in these humaner studies, before the century was out. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] if one would see the front quadrangle as the founders viewed it, when the last stones from headington quarries were put in their places, he must imagine it deprived of its third tier of windows and its parapet, for these are jacobean additions. the alteration, so far as it affected the outside, can hardly have been for the better; for the additional storey has certainly dwarfed the proportions of the fine tower, which, with its gateway, is the most striking feature of the second picture. as to the interior of the quadrangle--sketched by mr. matthison from two points of view--it is less easy to form an opinion; the dormer windows are so quaintly ornamental that the severest critic may hesitate to wish them gone. architecture of a totally different order meets the eye when the inner quadrangle is reached, as a glance at the final illustration proves; for the italian style is much in evidence. the foundation stone of the present chapel, which represented an older one, was laid in , and tradition attributes the design of it, as well as that of the library, to sir christopher wren, who was then quite a young man. its windows are gothic, but the corinthian pilasters and the general idea of the structure shew that the architect's adherence was divided between the older and newer methods. the ceiling is elaborately carved in fanwork tracery. the library stands between the chapel and the south side of the quadrangle. there is a curious regulation in the statutes directing that each volume it contained should be described in the catalogue by the first word on the second leaf. the reason of this is that the first leaf, being often splendidly illuminated, was liable to be torn out by dishonest borrowers; and as it was important to be able to identify a book, this could best be done by noting the first word on the second page, because it would very seldom happen that two copyists would begin that page with the same word. hence the initial word of the second leaf of a manuscript would in all probability mark that individual copy and no other. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] famous members of brasenose college were foxe, the historian of the martyrs; robert burton, author of the _anatomy of melancholy_--we may be sure _he_ used the library; john marston, satirist and dramatist, who, along with ben jonson and chapman, was thrown into prison for vilifying the scotch in _eastward ho_; sir henry savile, afterwards warden of merton, founder of the savilian professorship of astronomy; bishop heber; henry hart milman, the historian; and more noted cricketers and oarsmen than we have space to mention. nowell, dean of st. paul's, was chosen principal of the college when in his ninetieth year, but resigned after two months of office. that was in the sixteenth century. corpus christi college |corpus--as this college is universally known among oxford men--was founded in , during the days of the "new learning," by richard foxe, bishop of winchester. zealous for education, he took care that greek as well as latin should be taught to his scholars, appointing two "readers" in those tongues, whose lectures were to be open to the whole university. when, therefore, in corpus endowed the new latin professorship, it was acting in the spirit of its founder. that spirit, indeed, has animated the college throughout its history, for hard work (by no means divorced from athletic excellence) is traditional at corpus. bishop foxes plate and crozier are still among the treasures of his foundation. the first illustration shews the exterior of the college. above the gateway a curious piece of sculpture represents "angels bearing the host," or corpus christi, in a monstrance; on either side is a shield, the one engraved with foxe's arms, the other with those of his see. the second picture gives the interior of the front quadrangle. it is perhaps not too fanciful to suggest that the solidity and simplicity of the architecture are in keeping with the characteristics which experience has taught us to look for in corpus men. a touch of variety is given by the ancient cylindrical dial, constructed in by sir charles turnbull, a fellow. it is surmounted by the effigy of a pelican, a bird dear to corpus. another stone pelican, by the way, broods over the library roof at wadham. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] jewel and hooker among theologians, and stowell and tenterden among lawyers, belonged to bishop foxes college. here, too, was trained oglethorpe, philanthropist and founder of georgia, whom pope chose as a type of "strong benevolence of soul" and j ohnson loved to honour; and here were passed in close friendship the undergraduate days of arnold and keble, who, though later estranged by differences of opinion on religious questions, still retained their old personal regard. christ church |if magdalen is the most beautiful of oxford colleges, christ church is assuredly the most magnificent. building was one of the favourite pursuits of cardinal wolsey, first founder of christ church, as it was of wykeham and waynflete before him: it is almost mysterious how men of this type, who had the highest affairs of the state as well as of the church upon their shoulders, found so much leisure to devote to architecture. wolsey's plans were cut short by his fall from power, but he had already shewn by his completed palace in whitehall and by hampton court, which he built as a present for his sovereign, the grandeur and largeness of his ideas. out of the revenues of suppressed monasteries he had designed to establish a college far larger and far more richly endowed than any of its predecessors; and three sides of the great quadrangle had arisen before he fell upon adversity. then the king stopped the work, and for a century the unfinished structure stood as a reminder of vaulting ambition, that o'erleaps itself, and falls o' the other side. yet wolsey had a public as well as a private ambition. he loved learning, and desired to promote it: he sought to save the church by rearing instructed ministers for her service. if he failed, it was a noble failure; for though henry viii., who now assumed the title of founder, sanctioned an establishment less wide and generous than wolsey proposed, even so the new college easily surpassed all others in the scale of its endowments. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] the finest view of christ church from without is that which is obtained from st. aidates street, and is shewn in mr. matthison's first drawing. "tom" tower, which forms the centre of the façade, was not part of the original scheme, but was added in , when dr. john fell was dean. the college owes a debt of gratitude to dr. fell for employing wren as his architect, if for nothing else. wolseys gate, which was no higher than the two smaller towers between which his statue stands, might easily have been spoilt by a less skilful designer, but wren added to its beauty, and made it one of the finest structures in oxford. the tower is named after the great bell which it contains, brought from osney abbey. every night "tom" tolls a curfew of a hundred and one strokes at nine o'clock, and at the closing stroke all college gates are shut and all undergraduates supposed to be within their college walls. dr. john fell, by the way, is the dr. fell whom the epigrammatist disliked without being able to assign a cause. his pictures shew a forbidding countenance enough, but he deserved well of his college and the university. in addition to the tower, he completed the front towards st. aidates, fostered the university press, and did his best to make examinations a reality. he planted also the elms of the broad walk, a beautiful avenue which custom has decreed as the regulation promenade on "show sunday" (in commemoration week); but within the last twenty years storms have made havoc of the trees, and little of the walk's former beauty remains. the great quadrangle--"tom quad." in oxford parlance--dwarfs by its large dimensions all the other courts of oxford. the arches and rib-mouldings indicate the original intention of the first builders, which was to surround the quadrangle with a cloister. as it is, though this design was never carried out, the impression conveyed is one of great splendour. never is the appearance of "tom quad." more effective than at the moment when the white-robed congregation comes out of the cathedral doors. all undergraduates of "the house" wear surplices--worn by scholars only, save here and at keble--and the cathedral is their chapel. mr. matthison has chosen such a moment for his drawing, when the quadrangle is in a moment flooded by the white surplices, varied here and there by the crimson hood of a master or a doctor's scarlet robes. on the left of the drawing appears the cathedral spire; in the centre the belfry tower, a solid and handsome structure put up in dean liddell's day; and on the right the windows and pinnacles of the hall. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] to approach the hall one passes through the archway at the south-east corner of the quadrangle, and ascends a wide staircase notable for the wonderful fanwork tracery of the ceiling. this tracery dates from the time of dean samuel fell (father of dr. john fell), and was completed in ; it appears in mr. matthison's fourth drawing. the hall itself (which is the subject of the next illustration) has no rival in oxford and no superior in england, westminster hall only excepted. it measures feet by , and is feet in height. the window above the dais contains full length stained-glass representations of wolsey, more, erasmus, colet, and other great men of the reformation era; and the walls are hung with a very fine collection of portraits, including those of henry viii. and wolsey (by holbein), deans aldrich and atterbury (by kneller), charles wesley (by romney), george canning (by lawrence), gladstone (by millais), "lewis carroll" (by herkomer), and dean liddell (by watts). [illustration: ] [illustration: ] there is still much of christ church to explore, as the remaining illustrations indicate. from merton street one approaches "the house" by canterbury gate, which opens upon the small canterbury quadrangle (erected towards the end of the eighteenth century). beyond is peckwater quadrangle, built in after the italian model, on the site of peckwater's inn. the black and crumbling walls of this quadrangle are in striking contrast to the smooth surface of "tom quad.," but in the summer term, when every window is gay with flowers, the gloom of peckwater is forgotten. on the right hand is the library, which, beside books, contains an interesting collection of paintings of the early italian schools. the outlook from the meadow buildings ( ), which includes the broad walk, the long walk, and glimpses of the river, is a pleasant one, though the buildings themselves are not, from the outside, particularly attractive. some of the famous sons of christ church have already been incidentally mentioned. as might be expected from its numerous muster-roll, it has had members who attained distinction in every walk of life; but statistics seem to shew that there is something in the atmosphere of "the house" peculiarly favourable to the growth of statesmen. no other college, at any rate, has given england three premiers in succession, mr. gladstone (a double first), lord salisbury, and lord rosebery. to make an exhaustive list might weary the reader, but the honoured name of sir robert peel must at least be mentioned. strenuous as were these men's labours in after-life, it is permissible to fancy that amid the pleasant surroundings of their student days they did not altogether "scorn delights." here, for instance, is an extract from the diary kept by charles wesley when an undergraduate: "wrote to v.--translated--played an hour at billiards." there is no harm in supposing "v." a girl, if we choose. how strangely runs the little list of wesley's day, like isis rippling, while yet the mighty methodist 'mid striplings merry made, a stripling. to quote the words of an anonymous rhymer. again, the expounding of mathematics term after term is a sober pursuit enough, yet c. l. dodgson, mathematical tutor of christ church, had leisure to be "lewis carroll" also, the nursery classic, the delight of children of all ages. the serious purpose of john ruskin, who as the anonymous "oxford graduate" took the art world by storm, could not extinguish his lambent humour. it is a part of the genius of christ church to keep alive a certain sunshine of the mind. let us hope that this was the case even with her austerer thinkers; with locke, who was forced to leave the college on account of his whig opinions; with william penn, who was sent down for nonconformity--you will find sunshine as well as shadow in his little volume, _some fruits of solitude_, which he is thought to have composed, partly at any rate, in prison; and with dr. pusey, as he searched for the way of perfection among the dusty folios of patristic lore. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] trinity college |trinity college was founded by sir thomas pope, a rich lawyer, in . the site was previously occupied by durham college, a now extinct foundation, which existed for the training of students from the benedictine monastery of durham. there is much that is admirable about the buildings and grounds of trinity; and its position is so little secluded that anyone passing down broad street or parks road can hardly help noticing its beauties. the first illustration shews the college as seen from broad street. in the foreground are the handsome wrought-iron gates--there is a companion pair at the verge of the garden, in parks road--beyond which is the square entrance tower leading to the small quadrangle, decorated by four figures representing astronomy, geometry, divinity, and medicine. the old cottage buildings on the right of the porter's lodge, facing broad street, which are now used as college rooms, are in striking contrast with the new buildings designed by mr. t. g. jackson, r.a., and finished in ; these are some of the last century's most successful additions to ancient oxford. the chapel has an unwonted fragrance, for the wainscot is of cedar; it is famous also for its carving, being in this particular one of the best examples of the work of grinling gibbons. the hall has an unusually good collection of portraits. of all the buildings the buttery is probably the most ancient. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] the second illustration, taken from parks road, shews a part of the garden, with the inner quadrangle in the background; this latter is built in the italian manner, after wren's design. the costume of the loiterers in the garden, of both sexes, suggests that mr. matthison painted his picture on some warm day of spring. on such a day it is pleasant to fleet the time carelessly amid such scenes as these; nor must the beautiful lime tree walk escape mention, whose pleached boughs form a continuous archway of foliage. trinity can point to a remarkably long list of distinguished members, of whom it may suffice to name here the poets lodge and denham, harrington (author of _oceana_), chatham, professor freeman, bishop stubbs, and richard burton. but burtons stay was a short one; he heard already "the call of the wild." st. john's college [illustration: ] |archbishop chichele's college of st. bernard, established by him in and suppressed by henry viii., occupied the site of what is now st. john's college. one reminder of the older foundation is the statue of st. bernard, which still stands in the tower over the gateway. this gateway, sketched from st. giles', forms the subject of the second illustration. the hall and chapel too, though much altered in later times, were in the first instance used by the cistercians. st. john's was founded by sir thomas white, lord mayor of london, in . his portrait hangs in the hall, as well as those of laud and juxon, successively presidents of the college and archbishops of canterbury, and that of george iii. st. john's was devoted to the stuart cause, so it may be supposed that the likeness of the hanoverian king was not hung without compunctions on the part of senior members. the library contains a portrait of charles i., and statues of him and of his queen face each other in the inner quadrangle. reference has been already made to the second illustration. the first shews the exterior of the front quadrangle, sketched from within the walled row of elm trees. this quadrangle was only finished in , when its eastern side (facing the gateway) was built. the inner quadrangle, which was begun at the same date and completed in the first half of the seventeenth century, is, from an architectural point of view, of unusual interest. the visitor may naturally inquire what two classical colonnades are doing in a gothic quadrangle. there is no more satisfactory reply than that the architect, inigo jones, made a somewhat bold experiment, combining italian reminiscences with a gothic scheme. individual taste may determine how far he was successful; probably most critics will admire the colonnades in themselves, but think them out of place where they are. laud furnished the funds for inigo jones' work, but happily the pair excluded the italian element from their garden front, which is certainly one of the most beautiful things in oxford. diverse as are the judgments which have been passed upon laud's character and actions, there cannot be two opinions as to the beauty and fitness of this building, nor could any head of a college desire a worthier memorial. coming up to st. john's as a scholar in , laud became president in , and on the completion of his new buildings had the honour of receiving king charles i. and queen henrietta maria as his guests. full of stress as his life was, and tragic as was its end, his most peaceful hours were probably passed within the walls of the foundation which his generosity did so much to adorn. his body, which had been buried in london after his execution, was brought to st. john's at the restoration, and laid to rest, as he had desired, beneath the altar in the chapel. the library contains a valuable collection of ecclesiastical vestments which are said to be his gift. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] the third and fourth illustrations shew the north and south ends of the garden front. the open window in mrs. waltons sketch is that of the room occupied by laud. the garden is among the most delightful in oxford; and for beauty and diversity of flowers it certainly bears the palm. like the garden at wadham, it was formerly laid out in the stiff dutch style. sir thomas white, the founder, was a member of the guild of merchant taylors; and a considerable number of the scholarships are given to members of that company's london school. [illustration: ] jesus college |jesus college since its birth in has always been closely connected with wales. queen elizabeth, who did not forget her welsh ancestry, and "took no scorn," perhaps, "to wear the leek upon saint tavy's day," was willing to accept from hugh price, its actual originator, the honorary title of founder. the college possesses three portraits of this sovereign, as well as pictures of charles i. and charles ii. (who were benefactors). the buildings are in the late gothic style. the two illustrations shew different aspects of the front quadrangle, which conveys an impression of beauty and restfulness. the chapel is interesting. above the entrance is a latin inscription, signifying "may prayer ascend, may grace descend." within are the tombs of dr. henry maurice, professor of divinity, ; sir edward stradling, a colonel in charles i.'s army, ; and several principals of the college:--dr. francis mansell, who held that office three times; sir eubule thelwall, principal from to ; and sir leoline jenkins, appointed in . first appointed in , dr. mansell resigned the following year in favour of thelwall, who had completed the building of the college. his second term of office was cut short in commonwealth days, but he was reinstated at the restoration; the only head of a college, perhaps, who underwent such repeated vicissitudes. sir leoline jenkins did much to repair the damages which the college suffered in the civil wars. the service in the chapel on wednesday and friday evenings is entirely in the welsh language. distinguished members in the past of jesus college were henry vaughan, the poet; "beau nash," the arbiter of fashion in bath; lloyd of st. asaph, one of "the seven bishops"; and j. r. green, the historian. were sir hugh evans and fluellen, those embodiments of welsh humours, suggested by jesus men? we may think so, if we will; for shakespeare is known to have visited oxford, and is quite as likely to have picked up his welshmen there as anywhere else. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] wadham college |it can only be conjectured how long the vision of a stately building which, like absalom's pillar, should preserve the memory of his childless house, haunted the vacant hours of nicholas wadham of merifield, in the county of somerset. what is certain is that death cut short his day-dreams, and that he committed the accomplishment of his design to his wife dorothy. this remarkable woman was seventy-five years of age when the task devolved upon her. she assumed its responsibilities to such good purpose that within three years the college which bears her name was completed. the members of the first foundation were admitted in , and the foundress lived some five years more. wadham is one of the most perfect specimens of late gothic architecture in existence. no alteration whatever has taken place in the front quadrangle since its erection; only, where the stones have crumbled, they have been cunningly replaced. the chapel, though perpendicular, was erected at the same time as the other buildings. the late mr. j. h. parker made the reasonable suggestion that the architect desired to emphasise by this variation of style the religious and secular uses of the several structures. wadham, whether viewed from parks road or from its own delightful gardens, is a veritable joy to the beholder, as our illustrations indicate. the hall, moreover, which is one of the finest in oxford and contains a large collection of portraits, should not be neglected, nor the interior of the chapel, with the sombre grandeur of its stained windows and "prophets blazoned on the panes." [illustration: ] [illustration: ] wadham's early prosperity received a check in civil war times, when its plate was melted down for the king and its warden driven out by the roundheads. yet wilkins, its new warden, did not abuse his trust; and, thanks to his interest in science, it was within the walls of this college that the idea of the royal society was conceived. wadham has not lacked famous members, of diverse professions and highly divergent opinions. there is admiral blake, whose statue watches to-day over his native bridgewater; wilmot, earl of rochester, who was made master of arts at fourteen; onslow, speaker of the house of commons; lord westbury, whose inscription in the ante-chapel tells us that he "dated all his success in life from the time when he was elected a scholar of wadham at the age of fifteen"; dean church among ecclesiastics and dr. congreve among positivists. finally, there is sir christopher wren, whose name has been kept to the end in order that there may be coupled with it the name of mr. t. g. jackson, r.a.; for these two architects, both sons of wadham, have left impressions which deserve to be indelible upon the oxford that we know. pembroke college |pembroke dates its collegiate life from , but it had already existed and flourished for several centuries as broadgates hall. it owed its rise in the world to the benefactions of thomas tesdale and richard wightwick, burgesses of abingdon, who desired to endow a college for the benefit of their native town, and its new name to the earl of pembroke, then chancellor of oxford. thomas browne, who was later to be the author of _religio medici_, being senior commoner of the hall at this epoch, delivered a latin oration at the opening ceremony, in which he did not fail to employ the metaphor of the phoenix rising out of its ashes. architecturally, pembroke is a little put out of countenance by the neighbouring glories of christ church; nevertheless, the interior of the inner quadrangle ("the grass quad.," as it is called), which is the subject of the first illustration, possesses an irregular but restful beauty. up and down its staircases trod george whitefield, who, as a servitor, had the ungrateful duty of seeing that the students were in their rooms at a fixed hour; yet not one syllable of discontent with so humble a vocation disfigures the pages of his diary. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] on the right hand, as one enters the front quadrangle, is the library, formerly the refectory of broadgates hall, and the only surviving part of that institution. the chapel, renovated and decorated by mr. c. e. kempe in , should be visited. the view of the gateway possesses an added interest from the fact that samuel j ohnson, when an undergraduate of pembroke, lodged in a room in the second storey over the entrance. johnson ever retained an affection for his university and college, but it is to be feared that during his residence of fourteen months poverty and ill-health combined to make him far from happy. to others, perhaps, he appeared "gay and frolicsome," bent on entertaining his companions and keeping them from their studies, but to boswell he gave a different explanation. "ah, sir," he said, "i was mad and violent. it was bitterness which they mistook for frolic. i was miserably poor, and i thought to fight my way by my literature and my wit, so i disregarded all power and all authority." in a more cheerful, mood he spoke of pembroke as "a nest of singing birds"; and it is on record that he cut lectures to go sliding on christ church meadow. dr. johnson is pembroke's most famous son; but she can also point to the names of francis beaumont, john pym, shenstone, blackstone, and birkbeck hill, boswell's greatest editor. worcester college [illustration: ] |worcester college is the successor to gloucester hall, a hostel of the benedictine order founded in the thirteenth century. this hall was originally designed for students from the monastery at gloucester, but was soon thrown open to other benedictine houses. suppressed at the reformation, it was called back to life in elizabeth's reign by sir thomas white, who had already shewn his zeal for education by founding st. john's college, and for several generations had a successful career. among its distinguished members may be mentioned thomas allen, mathematician; sir kenelm digby, the romantic wooer of the brilliant and high-spirited venetia stanley; and richard lovelace, the cavalier poet. at the restoration bad times came, and gloucester hall, like the earlier hertford college of a subsequent age, seemed likely to perish of inanition. at this crisis there stepped in a benefactor, sir thomas crookes of worcestershire, with a bequest of £ , ; and the transformed hall was known, from onwards, as worcester college. worcester is comparatively at some distance from the other colleges, a fact on which undergraduate humour loves to dwell; but jests on this subject reflect rather on the poor walking powers of those who make them. at any rate, a "well-girt" visitor to oxford need not hesitate to take the journey, and will certainly find his pains rewarded, for worcester has much to show that is of interest, and much that is beautiful. the first view gives the interior of the front quadrangle. the buildings here are stately and dignified, if a little cold; they are obviously of the same date as those overlooking the deer-park of magdalen, and suggest the genius of the eighteenth century. there could hardly be a greater contrast to these than the ancient structures which are at the left hand of the quadrangle, as one enters; for these old buildings take us back to the monastic days of gloucester hall. a glimpse of them, as viewed from the garden, is given in the second illustration. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] the garden itself is delightful, and has, alone of oxford pleasances, the additional feature of a lake. mr. matthison's drawing shows how beautiful this lake and its surroundings can be, when the colours are newly laid on by the brush of summer. hertford college |hertford college consists of an anomalous collection of buildings, of various styles and dates. the eye rests with most pleasure on the jacobean part of the quadrangle, opposite the gateway. one view gives the interior of the quadrangle--in which is a sloping stairway reminiscent of a larger one of the same type in blois castle, the other shews the college from without, and includes the new buildings recently finished. this medley of structures is suggestive of the vicissitude through which the college has passed. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] so far back as the thirteenth century it was in existence as hart hall; and here the students of exeter and new college were successively lodged, while their own colleges were building. rightly or wrongly, exeter college claimed the ownership of hart hall for four centuries; but in the then principal of the hall, dr. newton, was successful in asserting its independence, and hart hall became hertford college. the endowments, however, were insignificant; the members fell off and the walls (or a part of them) fell down; and in a commission declared that hertford college no longer existed. about this time magdalen hall, which stood close to magdalen college, was burned down, and the university allotted the buildings of hertford to its roofless inhabitants; and the name of hertford was changed to magdalen hall. the final transformation came in , when hertford college, its title revived by act of parliament, was endowed by mr. baring, the banker. thus, with finances very different to the slender endowments of dr. newton's time, the college began a new era of prosperity. the famous selden was at hart hall, and charles james fox at hertford; the old magdalen hall bred william tyndale, sir matthew hale, lord clarendon, and thomas hobbes, author of _leviathan_. keble college |membership of this college is restricted to those who belong to the church of england. another primary purpose of keble is to provide a less expensive education than that afforded by other colleges. at the moment when the scheme was formulated died john keble, author of the christian year, and it was decided to name the new foundation after him, at once as a tribute to his memory and in order to enlist the active sympathies of his many admirers. an appeal for funds met with a liberal and widespread response, and keble college was opened in the michaelmas term of . [illustration: ] [illustration: ] the external appearance of keble is not commonly admired. it is a pleasanter task to dwell for a moment on the beauty of the interior of the chapel, which was presented by mr. william gibbs, and completed in . the visitor will be struck by the noble proportions of this edifice, its finely toned windows and its elaborate mosaics. a small ante-chapel contains holman hunts celebrated picture--the light of the world, presented by mrs. combe. keble soon took its place among the other colleges, both in work and play. it has a splendid hall and library, given by the gibbs family. in accordance with the economy of the scheme, the rooms of the undergraduates are small, and all meals are taken in common in hall. there is consequently more of the air of a public school about keble than is looked for in ordinary college life. its first warden, dr. talbot, is now bishop of southwark. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) lady connie by mrs. humphry ward author of "eltham house," "delia blanchflower," etc. illustrated by albert sterner [illustration: _there connie found nora's latest statement headed "list of liabilities"_] [illustration (decorative)] contents part i chapter i ii iii iv v vi vii viii ix x part ii xi xii xiii xiv xv part iii xvi xvii xviii xix list of illustrations there connie found nora's latest statement headed "list of liabilities" (frontispiece) constance sat in the shadow of a plane-tree with falloden at her feet the tea-party at mrs. hooper's lady connie had stood entranced by the playing of radowitz connie sat down beside radowitz and they looked at each other in silence lady connie held in her horse, feeding her eyes upon flood castle and its woods herr schwarz was examining a picture with a magnifying glass when falloden entered douglas knelt, looking into his father's face, and radowitz moved farther away part i chapter i "well, now we've done all we can, and all i mean to do," said alice hooper, with a pettish accent of fatigue. "everything's perfectly comfortable, and if she doesn't like it, we can't help it. i don't know why we make such a fuss." the speaker threw herself with a gesture of fatigue into a dilapidated basket-chair that offered itself. it was a spring day, and the windows of the old schoolroom in which she and her sister were sitting were open to a back garden, untidily kept, but full of fruit-trees just coming into blossom. through their twinkling buds and interlacing branches could be seen grey college walls--part of the famous garden front of st. cyprian's college, oxford. there seemed to be a slight bluish mist over the garden and the building, a mist starred with patches of white and dazzlingly green leaf. and, above all, there was an evening sky, peaceful and luminous, from which a light wind blew towards the two girls sitting by the open window. one, the elder, had a face like a watteau sketch, with black velvety eyes, hair drawn back from a white forehead, delicate little mouth, with sharp indentations at the corners, and a small chin. the other was much more solidly built--a girl of seventeen, in a plump phase, which however an intelligent eye would have read as not likely to last; a complexion of red and brown tanned by exercise; an expression in her clear eyes which was alternately frank and ironic; and an inconvenient mass of golden brown hair. "we make a fuss, my dear," said the younger sister, "because we're bound to make a fuss. connie, i understand, is to pay us a good round sum for her board and lodging, so it's only honest she should have a decent room." "yes, but you don't know what she'll call decent," said the other rather sulkily. "she's probably been used to all sorts of silly luxuries." "why of course, considering uncle risborough was supposed to have twenty-odd thousand a year. we're paupers, and she's got to put up with us. but we couldn't take her money and do nothing in return." nora hooper looked rather sharply at her sister. it fell to her in the family to be constantly upholding the small daily traditions of honesty and fair play. it was she who championed the servants, or insisted, young as she was, on bills being paid, when it would have been more agreeable to buy frocks and go to london for a theatre. she was a great power in the house, and both her languid, incompetent mother, and her pretty sister were often afraid of her. nora was a "home student," and had just begun to work seriously for english literature honours. alice on the other hand was the domestic and social daughter. she helped her mother in the house, had a head full of undergraduates, and regarded the "eights" week and commemoration as the shining events of the year. both girls were however at one in the uneasy or excited anticipation with which they were looking forward that evening to the arrival of a newcomer, who was, it seemed, to make part of the household for some time. their father, dr. ewen hooper, the holder of a recently founded classical readership, had once possessed a younger sister of considerable beauty, who, in the course of an independent and adventurous career, had captured--by no ignoble arts--a widower, who happened to be also an earl and a rich man. it happened while they were both wintering at florence, the girl working at paleography, in the ambrosian library, while lord risborough, occupying a villa in the neighbourhood of the torre san gallo, was giving himself to the artistic researches and the cosmopolitan society which suited his health and his tastes. he was a dilettante of the old sort, incurably in love with living, in spite of the loss of his wife, and his only son; in spite also of an impaired heart--in the physical sense--and various other drawbacks. he came across the bright girl student, discovered that she could talk very creditably about manuscripts and illuminations, gave her leave to work in his own library, where he possessed a few priceless things, and presently found her company, her soft voice, and her eager, confiding eyes quite indispensable. his elderly sister, lady winifred, who kept house for him, frowned on the business in vain; and finally departed in a huff to join another maiden sister, lady marcia, in an english country _ménage_, where for some years she did little but lament the flesh-pots of italy--florence. the married sister, lady langmoor, wrote reams of plaintive remonstrances, which remained unanswered. lord risborough married the girl student, ella hooper, and never regretted it. they had one daughter, to whom they devoted themselves--preposterously, their friends thought; but for twenty years, they were three happy people together. then virulent influenza, complicated with pneumonia, carried off the mother during a spring visit to rome, and six weeks later lord risborough died of the damaged heart which had held out so long. the daughter, lady constance bledlow, had been herself attacked by the influenza epidemic which had killed her mother, and the double blow of her parents' deaths, coming on a neurasthenic condition, had hit her youth rather hard. some old friends in rome, with the full consent of her guardian, the oxford reader, had carried her off, first to switzerland, and then to the riviera for the winter, and now in may, about a year after the death of her parents, she was coming for the first time to make acquaintance with the hooper family, with whom, according to her father's will, she was to make her home till she was twenty-one. none of them had ever seen her, except on two occasions; once, at a hotel in london; and once, some ten years before this date, when lord risborough had been d.c.l-ed at the encænia, as a reward for some valuable gifts which he had made to the bodleian, and he, his wife, and his little girl, after they had duly appeared at the all souls' luncheon, and the official fête in st. john's gardens, had found their way to the house in holywell, and taken tea with the hoopers. nora's mind, as she and her sister sat waiting for the fly in which mrs. hooper had gone to meet her husband's niece at the station, ran persistently on her own childish recollections of this visit. she sat in the window-sill, with her hand behind her, chattering to her sister. "i remember thinking when connie came in here to tea with us--'what a stuck-up thing you are!' and i despised her, because she couldn't climb the mulberry in the garden, and because she hadn't begun latin. but all the time, i envied her horribly, and i expect you did too, alice. can't you see her black silk stockings--and her new hat with those awfully pretty flowers, made of feathers? she had a silk frock too--white, very skimp, and short; and enormously long black legs, as thin as sticks; and her hair in plaits. i felt a thick lump beside her. and i didn't like her at all. what horrid toads children are! she didn't talk to us much, but her eyes seemed to be always laughing at us, and when she talked italian to her mother, i thought she was showing off, and i wanted to pinch her for being affected." "why, of course she talked italian," said alice, who was not much interested in her sister's recollections. "naturally. but that didn't somehow occur to me. after all i was only seven." "i wonder if she's really good-looking," said alice slowly, glancing, as she spoke, at the reflection of herself in an old dilapidated mirror, which hung on the schoolroom wall. "the photos are," said nora decidedly. "goodness, i wish she'd come and get it over. i want to get back to my work--and till she comes, i can't settle to anything." "well, they'll be here directly. i wonder what on earth she'll do with all her money. father says she may spend it, if she wants to. he's trustee, but uncle risborough's letter to him said she was to have the income if she wished--_now_. only she's not to touch the capital till she's twenty-five." "it's a good lot, isn't it?" said nora, walking about. "i wonder how many people in oxford have two thousand a year? a girl too. it's really rather exciting." "it won't be very nice for us--she'll be so different." alice's tone was a little sulky and depressed. the advent of this girl cousin, with her title, her good looks, her money, and her unfair advantages in the way of talking french and italian, was only moderately pleasant to the eldest miss hooper. "what--you think she'll snuff us out?" laughed nora. "not she! oxford's not like london. people are not such snobs." "what a silly thing to say, nora! as if it wasn't an enormous pull everywhere to have a handle to your name, and lots of money!" "well, i really think it'll matter less here than anywhere. oxford, my dear--or some of it--pursues 'the good and the beautiful'"--said nora, taking a flying leap on to the window-sill again, and beginning to poke up some tadpoles in a jar, which stood on the window-ledge. alice did not think it worth while to continue the conversation. she had little or nothing of nora's belief in the other-worldliness of oxford. at this period, some thirty odd years ago, the invasion of oxford on the north by whole new tribes of citizens had already begun. the old days of university exclusiveness in a ring fence were long done with; the days of much learning and simple ways, when there were only two carriages in oxford that were not doctors' carriages, when the wives of professors and tutors went out to dinner in "chairs" drawn by men, and no person within the magic circle of the university knew anybody--to speak of--in the town outside. the university indeed, at this later moment, still more than held its own, socially, amid the waves of new population that threatened to submerge it; and the occasional spectacle of retired generals and colonels, the growing number of broughams and victorias in the streets, or the rumours of persons with "smart" or "county" connections to be found among the rows of new villas spreading up the banbury road were still not sufficiently marked to disturb the essential character of the old and beautiful place. but new ways and new manners were creeping in, and the young were sensitively aware of them, like birds that feel the signs of coming weather. alice fell into a brown study. she was thinking about a recent dance given at a house in the parks, where some of her particular friends had been present, and where, on the whole, she had enjoyed herself greatly. nothing is ever perfect, and she would have liked it better if herbert pryce's sister had not--past all denying--had more partners and a greater success than herself, and if herbert pryce himself had not been--just a little--casual and inattentive. but after all they had had two or three glorious supper dances, and he certainly would have kissed her hand, while they were sitting out in the garden, if she had not made haste to put it out of his reach. "you never did anything of the kind till you were sure he did not mean to kiss it!" said conscience. "i did not give myself away in the least!"--was vanity's angry reply. "i was perfectly dignified." herbert pryce was a young fellow and tutor--a mathematical fellow; and therefore, alice's father, for whom greek was the only study worth the brains of a rational being, could not be got to take the smallest interest in him. but he was certainly very clever, and it was said he was going to get a post at cambridge--or something at the treasury--which would enable him to marry. alice suddenly had a vague vision of her own wedding; the beautiful central figure--she would certainly look beautiful in her wedding dress!--bowing so gracefully; the bridesmaids behind, in her favourite colours, white and pale green; and the tall man beside her. but herbert pryce was not really tall, and not particularly good-looking, though he had a rather distinguished hatchet face, with a good forehead. suppose herbert and vernon and all her other friends, were to give up being "nice" to her as soon as connie bledlow appeared? suppose she was going to be altogether cut out and put in the background? alice had a kind of uneasy foreboding that herbert pryce would think a title "interesting." meanwhile nora, having looked through an essay on "piers plowman," which she was to take to her english literature tutor on the following day, went aimlessly upstairs and put her head into connie's room. the old house was panelled, and its guest-room, though small and shabby, had yet absorbed from its oaken walls, and its outlook on the garden and st. cyprian's, a certain measure of the oxford charm. the furniture was extremely simple--a large hanging cupboard made by curtaining one of the panelled recesses of the wall, a chest of drawers, a bed, a small dressing-table and glass, a carpet that was the remains of one which had originally covered the drawing-room for many years, an armchair, a writing-table, and curtains which having once been blue had now been dyed a serviceable though ugly dark red. in nora's eyes it was all comfortable and nice. she herself had insisted on having the carpet and curtains redipped, so that they really looked almost new, and the one mattress on the bed "made over"; she had brought up the armchair, and she had gathered the cherry-blossoms, which stood on the mantelpiece shining against the darkness of the walls. she had also hung above it a photograph of watts "love and death." nora looked at the picture and the flowers with a throb of pleasure. alice never noticed such things. and now what about the maid? fancy bringing a maid! nora's sentiments on the subject were extremely scornful. however connie had simply taken it for granted, and she had been housed somehow. nora climbed up an attic stair and looked into a room which had a dormer window in the roof, two strips of carpet on the boards, a bed, a washing-stand, a painted chest of drawers, a table, with an old looking-glass, and two chairs. "well, that's all i have!" thought nora defiantly. but a certain hospitable or democratic instinct made her go downstairs again and bring up a small vase of flowers like those in connie's room, and put it on the maid's table. the maid was english, but she had lived a long time abroad with the risboroughs. sounds! yes, that was the fly stopping at the front door! nora flew downstairs, in a flush of excitement. alice too had come out into the hall, looking shy and uncomfortable. dr. hooper emerged from his study. he was a big, loosely built man, with a shock of grizzled hair, spectacles, and a cheerful expression. a tall, slim girl, in a grey dust-cloak and a large hat, entered the dark panelled hall, looking round her. "welcome, my dear connie!" said dr. hooper, cordially, taking her hand and kissing her. "your train must have been a little late." "twenty minutes!" said mrs. hooper, who had followed her niece into the hall. "and the draughts in the station, ewen, were something appalling." the tone was fretful. it had even a touch of indignation as though the speaker charged her husband with the draughts. mrs. hooper was a woman between forty and fifty, small and plain, except for a pair of rather fine eyes, which, in her youth, while her cheeks were still pink, and the obstinate lines of her thin slit mouth and prominent chin were less marked, had beguiled several lovers, ewen hooper at their head. dr. hooper took no notice of her complaints. he was saying to his niece--"this is alice, constance--and nora! you'll hardly remember each other again, after all these years." "oh, yes, i remember quite well," said a clear, high-pitched voice. "how do you do!--how do you do?" and the girl held a hand out to each cousin in turn. she did not offer to kiss either alice or nora. but she looked at them steadily, and suddenly nora was aware of that expression of which she had so vivid although so childish a recollection--as though a satiric spirit sat hidden and laughing in the eyes, while the rest of the face was quite grave. "come in and have some tea. it's quite ready," said alice, throwing open the drawing-room door. her face had cleared suddenly. it did not seem to her, at least in the shadows of the hall, that her cousin constance was anything of a beauty. "i'm afraid i must look after annette first. she's much more important than i am!" and the girl ran back to where a woman in a blue serge coat and skirt was superintending the carrying in of the luggage. there was a great deal of luggage, and annette, who wore a rather cross, flushed air, turned round every now and then to look frowningly at the old gabled house into which it was being carried, as though she were more than doubtful whether the building would hold the boxes. yet as houses went, in the older parts of oxford, medburn house, holywell, was roomy. "annette, don't do any unpacking till after tea!" cried lady constance. "just get the boxes carried up, and rest a bit. i'll come and help you later." the maid said nothing. her lips seemed tightly compressed. she stepped into the hall, and spoke peremptorily to the white-capped parlourmaid who stood bewildered among the trunks. "have those boxes--" she pointed to four--two large american saratogas, and two smaller trunks--"carried up to her ladyship's room. the other two can go into mine." "miss!" whispered the agitated maid in nora's ear, "we'll never get any of those boxes up the top-stairs. and if we put them four into her ladyship's room, she'll not be able to move." "i'll come and see to it," said nora, snatching up a bag. "they've got to go somewhere!" mrs. hooper repeated that nora would manage it, and languidly waved her niece towards the drawing-room. the girl hesitated, laughed, and finally yielded, seeing that nora was really in charge. dr. hooper led her in, placed an armchair for her beside the tea-table, and stood closely observing her. "you're like your mother," he said, at last, in a low voice; "at least in some points." the girl turned away abruptly, as though what he said jarred, and addressed herself to alice. "poor annette was very sick. it was a vile crossing." "oh, the servants will look after her," said alice indifferently. "everybody has to look after annette!--or she'll know the reason why," laughed lady constance, removing her black gloves from a very small and slender hand. she was dressed in deep mourning with crape still upon her hat and dress, though it was more than a year since her mother's death. such mourning was not customary in oxford, and alice hooper thought it affected. mrs. hooper then made the tea. but the newcomer paid little attention to the cup placed beside her. her eyes wandered round the group at the tea-table, her uncle, a man of originally strong physique, marred now by the student's stoop, and by weak eyes, tried by years of greek and german type; her aunt-- "what a very odd woman aunt ellen is!" thought constance. for, all the way from the station, mrs. hooper had talked about scarcely anything but her own ailments, and the oxford climate. "she told us all about her rheumatisms--and the east winds--and how she ought to go to buxton every year--only uncle hooper wouldn't take things seriously. and she never asked us anything at all about our passage, or our night journey! and there was annette--as yellow as an egg--and as _cross_--" however dr. hooper was soon engaged in making up for his wife's shortcomings. he put his niece through many questions as to the year which had elapsed since her parent's death; her summer in the high alps, and her winter at cannes. "i never met your friends--colonel and mrs. king. we are not military in oxford. but they seem--to judge from their letters--to be very nice people," said the professor, his tone, quite unconsciously, suggesting the slightest shade of patronage. "oh, they're dears," said the girl warmly. "they were awfully good to me." "cannes was very gay, i suppose?" "we saw a great many people in the afternoons. the kings knew everybody. but i didn't go out in the evenings." "you weren't strong enough?" "i was in mourning," said the girl, looking at him with her large and brilliant eyes. "yes, yes, of course!" murmured the reader, not quite understanding why he felt himself a trifle snubbed. he asked a few more questions, and his niece, who seemed to have no shyness, gave a rapid description, as she sipped her tea, of the villa at cannes in which she had passed the winter months, and of the half dozen families, with whom she and her friends had been mostly thrown. alice hooper was secretly thrilled by some of the names which dropped out casually. she always read the accounts in the _queen_, or the _sketch_, of "smart society" on the riviera, and it was plain to her that constance had been dreadfully "in it." it would not apparently have been possible to be more "in it." she was again conscious of a hot envy of her cousin which made her unhappy. also connie's good looks were becoming more evident. she had taken off her hat, and all the distinction of her small head, her slender neck and sloping shoulders, was more visible; her self-possession, too, the ease and vivacity of her gestures. her manner was that of one accustomed to a large and varied world, who took all things without surprise, as they came. dr. hooper had felt some emotion, and betrayed some, in this meeting with his sister's motherless child; but the girl's only betrayal of feeling had lain in the sharpness with which she had turned away from her uncle's threatened effusion. "and how she looks at us!" thought alice. "she looks at us through and through. yet she doesn't stare." but at that moment alice heard the word "prince," and her attention was instantly arrested. "we had some russian neighbours," the newcomer was saying; "prince and princess jaroslav; and they had an english party at christmas. it was great fun. they used to take us out riding into the mountains, or into italy." she paused a moment, and then said carelessly--as though to keep up the conversation--"there was a mr. falloden with them--an undergraduate at marmion college, i think. do you know him, aunt ellen?" she turned towards her aunt. but mrs. hooper only looked blank. she was just thinking anxiously that she had forgotten to take her tabloids after lunch, because ewen had hustled her off so much too soon to the station. "i don't think we know him," she said vaguely, turning towards alice. "we know all about him. he was introduced to me once." the tone of the eldest miss hooper could scarcely have been colder. the eyes of the girl opposite suddenly sparkled into laughter. "you didn't like him?" "nobody does. he gives himself such ridiculous airs." "does he?" said constance. the information seemed to be of no interest to her. she asked for another cup of tea. "oh, falloden of marmion?" said dr. hooper. "i know him quite well. one of the best pupils i have. but i understand he's the heir to his old uncle, lord dagnall, and is going to be enormously rich. his father's a millionaire already. so of course he'll soon forget his greek. a horrid waste!" "he's detested in college!" alice's small face lit up vindictively. "there's a whole set of them. other people call them 'the bloods.' the dons would like to send them all down." "they won't send falloden down, my dear, before he gets his first in greats, which he will do this summer. but this is his last term. i never knew any one write better greek iambics than that fellow," said the reader, pausing in the middle of his cup of tea to murmur certain greek lines to himself. they were part of the brilliant copy of verses by which douglas falloden of marmion, in a fiercely contested year, had finally won the ireland, ewen hooper being one of the examiners. "that's what's so abominable," said alice, setting her small mouth. "you don't expect reading men to drink, and get into rows." "drink?" said constance bledlow, raising her eyebrows. alice went into details. the dons of marmion, she said, were really frightened by the spread of drinking in college, all caused by the bad example of the falloden set. she talked fast and angrily, and her cousin listened, half scornfully, but still attentively. "why don't they keep him in order?" she said at last. "we did!" and she made a little gesture with her hand, impatient and masterful, as though dismissing the subject. and at that moment nora came into the room, flushed either with physical exertion, or the consciousness of her own virtue. she found a place at the tea-table, and panting a little demanded to be fed. "it's hungry work, carrying up trunks!" "you didn't!" exclaimed constance, in large-eyed astonishment. "i say, i am sorry! why did you? i'm sure they were too heavy. why didn't annette get a man?" and sitting up, she bent across the table, all charm suddenly, and soft distress. "we did get one, but he was a wretched thing. i was worth two of him," said nora triumphantly. "you should feel my biceps. there!" and slipping up her loose sleeve, she showed an arm, at which constance bledlow laughed. and her laugh touched her face with something audacious--something wild--which transformed it. "i shall take care how i offend you!" nora nodded over her tea. "your maid was shocked. she said i might as well have been a man." "it's quite true," sighed mrs. hooper. "you always were such a tomboy, nora." "not at all! but i wish to develop my muscles. that's why i do swedish exercises every morning. it's ridiculous how flabby girls are. there isn't a girl in my lecture i can't put down. if you like, i'll teach you my exercises," said nora, her mouth full of tea-cake, and her expression half friendly, half patronising. connie bledlow did not immediately reply. she seemed to be quietly examining nora, as she had already examined alice, and that odd gleam in the eyes under depths appeared again. but at last she said, smiling-- "thank you. but my muscles are quite strong enough for the only exercise i want. you said i might have a horse, uncle ewen, didn't you?" she turned eagerly to the master of the house. dr. hooper looked at his wife with some embarrassment. "i want you to have anything you wish for--in reason--my dear connie; but your aunt is rather exercised about the proprieties." the small dried-up woman behind the tea-urn said sharply: "a girl can't ride alone in oxford--she'd be talked about at once!" lady connie flushed mutinously. "i could take a groom, aunt ellen!" "well, i don't approve of it," said mrs. hooper, in the half plaintive tone of one who must speak although no one listens. "but of course your uncle must decide." "we'll talk it over, my dear connie, we'll talk it over," said dr. hooper cheerfully. "now wouldn't you like nora to show you to your room?" the girls went upstairs together, nora leading the way. "it's an awful squash in your room," said nora abruptly. "i don't know how you'll manage." "my fault, i suppose, for bringing so many things! but where else could i put them?" nora nodded gravely, as though considering the excuse. the newcomer suddenly felt herself criticised by this odd schoolgirl and resented it. the door of the spare-room was open, and the girls entered upon a scene of chaos. annette rose from her knees, showing a brick-red countenance of wrath that strove in vain for any sort of dignity. and again that look of distant laughter came into lady connie's eyes. "my dear annette, why aren't you having a rest, as i told you! i can do with anything to-night." "well, my lady, if you'll tell me how you'll get into bed, unless i put some of these things away, i should be obliged!" said annette, with a dark look at nora. "i've asked for a wardrobe for you, and this young lady says there isn't one. there's that hanging cupboard"--she pointed witheringly to the curtained recess--"your dresses will be ruined there in a fortnight. and there's that chest of drawers. your things will have to stay in the trunks, as far as i can see, and then you might as well sleep on them. it would give you more room!" with which stroke of sarcasm, annette returned to the angry unpacking of her mistress's bag. "i must buy a wardrobe," said connie, looking round her in perplexity. "never mind, annette, i can easily buy one." it was now nora's turn to colour. "you mustn't do that," she said firmly. "father wouldn't like it. we'll find something. but do you want such a lot of things?" she looked at the floor heaped with every variety of delicate mourning, black dresses, thick and thin, for morning and afternoon; and black and white, or pure white, for the evening. and what had happened to the bed? it was already divested of the twilled cotton sheets and marcella quilt which were all the hoopers ever allowed either to themselves or their guests. they had been replaced by sheets 'of the finest and smoothest linen, embroidered with a crest and monogram in the corners, and by a coverlet of old italian lace lined with pale blue silk; while the down pillows at the head with their embroidered and lace-trimmed slips completed the transformation of what had been a bed, and was now almost a work of art. and the dressing-table! nora went up to it in amazement. it too was spread with lace lined with silk, and covered with a toilet-set of mother-of-pearl and silver. every brush and bottle was crested and initialled. the humble looking-glass, which nora, who was something of a carpenter, had herself mended before her cousin's arrival, was standing on the floor in a corner, and a folding mirror framed in embossed silver had taken its place. "i say, do you always travel with these things?" the girl stood open-mouthed, half astonished, half contemptuous. "what things?" nora pointed to the toilet-table and the bed. connie's expression showed an answering astonishment. "i have had them all my life," she said stiffly. "we always took our own linen to hotels, and made our rooms nice." "i should think you'd be afraid of their being stolen!" nora took up one of the costly brushes, and examined it in wonder. "why should i be? they're nothing. they're just like other people's!" with a slight but haughty change of manner, the girl turned away, and began to talk italian to her maid. "i never saw anything like them!" said nora stoutly. constance bledlow took no notice. she and annette were chattering fast, and nora could not understand a word. she stood by awkward and superfluous, feeling certain that the maid who was gesticulating, now towards the ceiling, and now towards the floor, was complaining both of her own room and of the kitchen accommodation. her mistress listened carelessly, occasionally trying to soothe her, and in the middle of the stream of talk, nora slipped away. "it's horrid!--spending all that money on yourself," thought the girl of seventeen indignantly. "and in oxford too!--as if anybody wanted such things here." * * * * * meanwhile, she was no sooner gone than her cousin sank down on the armchair, and broke into a slightly hysterical fit of laughter. "can we stand it, annette? we've got to try. of course you can leave me if you choose." "and i should like to know how you'd get on then!" said annette, grimly, beginning again upon the boxes. "well, of course, i shouldn't get on at all. but really we might give away a lot of these clothes! i shall never want them." the speaker looked frowning at the stacks of dresses and lingerie. annette made no reply; but went on busily with her unpacking. if the clothes were to be got rid of, they were her perquisites. she was devoted to constance, but she stood on her rights. presently a little space was cleared on the floor, and constance, seeing that it was nearly seven o'clock, and the hoopers supped at half past, took off her black dress with its crape, and put on a white one, high to the throat and long-sleeved; a french demi-toilette, plain, and even severe in make, but cut by the best dressmaker in nice. she looked extraordinarily tall and slim in it and very foreign. her maid clasped a long string of opals, which was her only ornament, about her neck. she gave one look at herself in the glass, holding herself proudly, one might have said arrogantly. but as she turned away, and so that annette could not see her, she raised the opals, and held them a moment softly to her lips. her mother had habitually worn them. then she moved to the window, and looked out over the hoopers' private garden, to the spreading college lawns, and the grey front beyond. "am i really going to stay here a whole year--nearly?" she asked herself, half laughing, half rebellious. then her eye fell upon a medley of photographs; snaps from her own camera, which had tumbled out of her bag in unpacking. the topmost one represented a group of young men and maidens standing under a group of stone pines in a riviera landscape. she herself was in front, with a tall youth beside her. she bent down to look at it. "i shall come across him i suppose--before long." and raising herself, she stood awhile, thinking; her face alive with an excitement that was half expectation, and half angry recollection. chapter ii "my dear ellen, i beg you will not interfere any more with connie's riding. i have given leave, and that really must settle it. she tells me that her father always allowed her to ride alone--with a groom--in london and the campagna; she will of course pay all the expenses of it out of her own income, and i see no object whatever in thwarting her. she is sure to find our life dull enough anyway, after the life she has been living." "i don't know why you should call oxford dull, ewen!" said mrs. hooper resentfully. "i consider the society here much better than anything connie was likely to see on the riviera--much more respectable anyway. well, of course, everybody will call her fast--but that's your affair. i can see already she won't be easily restrained. she's got an uncommonly strong will of her own." "well, don't try and restrain her, dear, too much," laughed her husband. "after all she's twenty, she'll be twenty-one directly. she may not be more than a twelvemonth with us. she need not be, as far as my functions are concerned. let's make friends with her and make her happy." "i don't want my girls talked about, thank you, ewen!" his wife gave an angry dig to the word "my." "everybody says what a nice ladylike girl alice is. but nora often gives me a deal of trouble--and if she takes to imitating connie, and wanting to go about without a chaperon, i don't know what i shall do. my dear ewen, do you know what i discovered last night?" mrs. hooper rose and stood over her husband impressively. "well--what?" "you remember connie went to bed early. well, when i came up, and passed her door, i noticed something--somebody in that room was--smoking! i could not be mistaken. and this morning i questioned the housemaid. 'yes, ma'am,' she said, 'her ladyship smoked two cigarettes last night, and mrs. tinkler'--that's the maid--'says she always smokes two before she goes to bed.' then i spoke to tinkler--whose manner to me, i consider, is not at all what it should be--and she said that connie smoked three cigarettes a day always--that lady risborough smoked--that all the ladies in rome smoked--that connie began it before her mother died--and her mother didn't mind--" "well then, my dear, you needn't mind," exclaimed dr. hooper. "i always thought ella risborough went to pieces--rather--in that dreadful foreign life," said mrs. hooper firmly. "everybody does--you can't help it." "i don't know what you mean by going 'to pieces,'" said ewen hooper warmly. "i only know that when they came here ten years ago, i thought her one of the most attractive--one of the most charming women i had ever seen." from where he stood, on the hearth-rug of his study, smoking an after-breakfast pipe, he looked down--frowning--upon his wife, and mrs. hooper felt that she had perhaps gone too far. never had she forgotten, never had she ceased to resent her own sense of inferiority and disadvantage, beside her brilliant sister-in-law on the occasion of that long past visit. she could still see ella risborough at the all souls' luncheon given to the newly made d.c.ls, sitting on the right of the vice-chancellor, and holding a kind of court afterwards in the library; a hat that was little more than a wreath of forget-me-nots on her dark hair, and a long, lace cloak draping the still young and graceful figure. she remembered vividly the soft, responsive eyes and smile, and the court of male worshippers about them. professors, tutors young and old, undergraduates and heads of houses, had crowded round the mother and the long-legged, distinguished-looking child, who clung so closely to her side; and if only she could have given oxford a few more days, the whole place would have been at ella risborough's feet. "so intelligent too!" said the enthusiastic--"so learned even!" a member of the roman "accademia dei lincei," with only one other woman to keep her company in that august band; and yet so modest, so unpretending, so full of laughter, and life, and sex! mrs. hooper, who generally found herself at these official luncheons in a place which her small egotism resented, had watched her sister-in-law from a distance, envying her dress, her title, her wealth, bitterly angry that ewen's sister should have a place in the world that ewen's wife could never hope to touch, and irrevocably deciding that ella risborough was "fast" and gave herself airs. nor did the afternoon visit, when the risboroughs, with great difficulty, had made time for the family call on the hoopers, supply any more agreeable memories. ella risborough had been so rapturously glad to see her brother, and in spite of a real effort to be friendly had had so little attention to spare for his wife! it was true she had made much of the hooper children, and had brought them all presents from italy. but mrs. hooper had chosen to think the laughing sympathy and evident desire to please "affectation," or patronage, and had been vexed in her silent corner to see how little her own two girls could hold their own beside constance. as for lord risborough, he had frankly found it difficult to remember mrs. hooper's identity, while on the other hand he fell at once into keen discussion of some recent finds in the greek islands with ewen hooper, to whom in the course of half an hour it was evident that he took a warm liking. he put up his eye-glass to look at the hooper children; he said vaguely, "i hope that some day you and mrs. hooper will descend upon us in rome;" and then he hurried his wife away with the audible remark--"we really must get to blenheim, ellie, in good time. you promised the duchess--" so ill-bred--so snobbish--to talk of your great acquaintances in public! and as for lady risborough's answer--"i don't care twopence about the duchess, hugh! and i haven't seen ewen for six years,"--it had been merely humbug, for she had obediently followed her husband, all the same. recollections of this kind went trickling through mrs. hooper's mind, roused by ewen's angry defence of his sister. it was all very well, but now the long-legged child had grown up, and was going to put her--ellen hooper's--daughters in the shade, to make them feel their inferiority, just as the mother had done with herself. of course the money was welcome. constance was to contribute three hundred a year, which was a substantial addition to an income which, when all supplemental earnings--exams, journalism, lectures--were counted, rarely reached seven hundred. but they would be "led into expenses"--the maid was evidently a most exacting woman; and meanwhile, alice, who was just out, and was really quite a pretty girl, would be entirely put in the background by this young woman with her forward manner, and her title, and the way she had as though the world belonged to her. mrs. hooper felt no kinship with her whatever. she was ewen's blood--not hers; and the mother's jealous nature was all up in arms for her own brood--especially for alice. nora could look after herself, and invariably did. besides nora was so tiresome! she was always ready to give the family case away--to give everything away, preposterously. and, apropos, mrs. hooper expressed her annoyance with some silly notions nora had just expressed to her. "i do hope, ewen, you won't humour and spoil constance too much! nora says now she's dissatisfied with her room and wants to buy some furniture. well, let her, i say. she has plenty of money, and we haven't. we have given her a great deal more than we give our own daughters--" "she pays us, my dear!" mrs. hooper straightened her thin shoulders. "well, and you give her the advantage of your name and your reputation here. it is not as though you were a young don, a nobody. you've made your position. everybody asks us to all the official things--and connie, of course, will be asked, too." a smile crept round dr. hooper's weak and pleasant mouth. "don't flatter yourself, ellen, that connie will find oxford society very amusing after rome and the riviera." "that will be her misfortune," said mrs. hooper, stoutly. "anyway, she will have all the advantages we have. we take her with us, for instance, to the vice-chancellor's to-night?" "do we?" dr. hooper groaned. "by the way, can't you let me off, ellen? i've got such a heap of work to do." "certainly not! people who shut themselves up never get on, ewen. i've just finished mending your gown, on purpose. how you tear it as you do, i can't think! but i was speaking of connie. we shall take her, of course--" "have you asked her?" "i told her we were all going--and to meet lord glaramara. she didn't say anything." dr. hooper laughed. "you'll find her, i expect, a very independent young woman--" but at that moment his daughter nora, after a hurried and perfunctory knock, opened the study door vehemently, and put in a flushed face. "father, i want to speak to you!" "come in, my dear child. but i can't spare more than five minutes." and the reader glanced despairingly at a clock, the hands of which were pointing to half past ten a.m. how it was that, after an eight o'clock breakfast, it always took so long for a man to settle himself to his work he really could not explain. not that his conscience did not sometimes suggest the answer, pointing to a certain slackness and softness in himself--the primal shrinking from work, the primal instinct to sit and dream--that had every day to be met and conquered afresh, before the student actually found himself in his chair, or lecturing from his desk with all his brains alert. anyway, the reader, when there was no college or university engagement to pin him down, would stand often--"spilling the morning in recreation"; in other words, gossiping with his wife and children, or loitering over the newspapers, till the inner monitor turned upon him. then he would work furiously for hours; and the work when done was good. for there would be in it a kind of passion, a warmth born of the very effort and friction of the will which had been necessary to get it done at all. nora, however, had not come in to gossip. she was in a white heat. "father!--we ought not to let connie furnish her own rooms!" "but, my dear, who thinks of her doing any such thing? what do you mean?" and dr. hooper took his pipe out of his mouth, and stood protesting. "she's gone out, she and annette. they slipped out just now when mother came in to you; and i'm certain they've gone to b's"--the excited girl named a well-known oxford furniture shop--"to buy all sorts of things." "well, after all, it's my house!" said the reader, smiling. "connie will have to ask my leave first." "oh, she'll persuade you!" cried nora, standing before her father with her hands behind her. "she'll make us all do what she wants. she'll be like a cuckoo in the nest. she'll be too strong for us." ewen hooper put out a soothing hand, and patted his youngest daughter on the shoulder. "wait a bit, my dear. and when connie comes back just ask her to step in here a moment. and now will you both please be gone--at once?--quick once?--quick march!" and taking his wife and daughter by the shoulders, he turned them both forcibly out, and sat down to make his final preparations for a lecture that afternoon on the "feminism" of euripides. * * * * * meanwhile connie bledlow and her maid were walking quickly down the broad towards the busy cornmarket with its shops. it was a brilliant morning--one of those east wind days when all clouds are swept from the air, and every colour of the spring burns and flashes in the sun. every outline was clear; every new-leafed tree stood radiant in the bright air. the grey or black college walls had lost all the grimness of winter, they were there merely to bring out the blue of the sky, the yellow gold, the laburnum, the tossing white of the chestnuts. the figures, even, passing in the streets, seemed to glitter with the trees and the buildings. the white in the women's dresses; the short black gowns and square caps of the undergraduates; the gay colours in the children's frocks; the overhanging masses of hawthorn and lilac that here and there thrust themselves, effervescent and rebellious, through and over college walls:--everything shimmered and shone in the may sunlight. the air too was tonic and gay, a rare thing for oxford; and connie, refreshed by sleep, walked with such a buoyant and swinging step that her stout maid could hardly keep up with her. many a passer-by observed her. men on their way to lecture, with battered caps and gowns slung round their necks, threw sharp glances at the tall girl in black, with the small pale face, so delicately alive, and the dark eyes that laughed--aloof and unabashed--at all they saw. "what boys they are!" said constance presently, making a contemptuous lip. "they ought to be still in the nursery." "what--the young men in the caps, my lady?" "those are the undergraduates, annette--the boys who live in the colleges." "they don't stare like the italian young gentlemen," said annette, shrugging her shoulders. "many a time i wanted to box their ears for the way they looked at you in the street." connie laughed. "i liked it! they were better-looking than these boys. annette, do you remember that day two years ago when i took you to that riding competition--what did they call it?--that gymkhana--in the villa borghese--and we saw all those young officers and their horses? what glorious fellows they were, most of them! and how they rode!" her cheek flushed to the recollection. for a moment the oxford street passed out of sight. she saw the grassy slopes, the stone pines, the white walls, the classic stadium of the villa borghese, with the hot june sun stabbing the open spaces, and the deep shadows under the ilexes; and in front of the picture, the crowd of jostling horses, with their riders, bearing the historic names of rome--colonnas, orsinis, gaetanis, odescalchis, and the rest. a young and splendid brood, all arrogant life and gaiety, as high-mettled as their english and irish horses. and in front a tall, long-limbed cavalry officer in the queen's household, bowing to constance bledlow, as he comes back, breathless and radiant from the race he has just won, his hand tight upon the reins, his athlete's body swaying to each motion of his horse, his black eyes laughing into hers. why, she had imagined herself in love with him for a whole week! then, suddenly, she perceived that in her absence of mind she was running straight into a trio of undergraduates who were hurriedly stepping off the path to avoid her. they looked at her, and she at them. they seemed to her all undersized, plain and sallow. they carried books, and two wore glasses. "those are what _he_ used to call 'smugs'!" she thought contemptuously, her imagination still full of the laughing italian youths on their glistening horses. and, she began to make disparaging remarks about english young men to annette. if this intermittent stream of youths represented them, the english _gioventù_ was not much to boast of. next a furniture shop appeared, with wide windows, and a tempting array of wares, and in they went. constance had soon bought a wardrobe and a cheval-glass for herself, an armchair, a carpet, and a smaller wardrobe for annette, and seeing a few trifles, like a french screen, a small sofa, and an inlaid writing-table in her path, she threw them in. then it occurred to her that uncle ewen might have something to say to these transactions, and she hastily told the shopman not to send the things to medburn house till she gave the order. out they went, this time into the crowded cornmarket, where there were no colleges, and where the town that was famous long before the university began, seemed to be living its own vigorous life, untrammelled by the men in gowns. only in seeming, however, for in truth every single shop in the street depended upon the university. they walked on into the town, looking into various colleges, sitting in broad walk, and loitering over shops, till one o'clock struck from oxford's many towers. "heavens!" said constance--"and lunch is at . !" they turned and walked rapidly along the "corn," which was once more full of men hurrying back to their own colleges from the lecture rooms of balliol and st. john's. now, it seemed to constance that the men they passed were of a finer race. she noticed plenty of tall fellows, with broad shoulders, and the look of keen-bitten health. "look at that pair coming!" she said to annette. "that's better!" the next moment, she stopped, confused, eyes wide, lips parted. for the taller of the two had taken off his cap, and stood towering and smiling in her path. a young man, of about six foot three, magnificently made, thin with the leanness of an athlete in training,--health, power, self-confidence, breathing from his joyous looks and movements--was surveying her. his lifted cap showed a fine head covered with thick brown curls. the face was long, yet not narrow; the cheek-bones rather high, the chin conspicuous. the eyes--very dark and heavily lidded--were set forward under strongly marked eyebrows; and both they, the straight nose with its close nostrils, and the red mouth, seemed to be drawn in firm yet subtle strokes on the sunburnt skin, as certain dutch and italian painters define the features of their sitters in a containing outline as delicate as it is unfaltering. the aspect of this striking person was that of a young king of men, careless, audacious, good-humoured; and constance bledlow's expression, as she held out her hand to him, betrayed, much against her will, that she was not indifferent to the sight of him. "well met, indeed!" said the young man, the gaiety in his look, a gaiety full of meaning, measuring itself against the momentary confusion in hers. "i have been hoping to hear of you--for a long time!--lady constance. are you with the--the hoopers--is it?" "i am staying with my uncle and aunt. i only arrived yesterday." the girl's manner had become, in a few seconds, little less than repellent. "well, oxford's lively. you'll find lots going on. the eights begin the day after to-morrow, and i've got my people coming up. i hope you'll let mrs. hooper bring you to tea to meet them? oh, by the way, do you know meyrick? i think you must have met him." he turned to his companion, a fair-haired giant, evidently his junior. "lord meyrick--lady constance bledlow. will you come, lady connie?" "i don't know what my aunt's engagements are," said constance stiffly. the trio had withdrawn into the shade of a wide doorway belonging to an old oxford inn. annette was looking at the windows of the milliner's shop next door. "my mother shall do everything that is polite--everything in the world! and when may i come to call? you have no faith in my manners, i know!" laughed the young man. "how you did sit upon me at cannes!" and again his brilliant eyes, fixed upon her, seemed to be saying all sorts of unspoken things. "how has he been behaving lately?" said constance drily, turning to lord meyrick, who stood grinning. "just as usual! he's generally mad. don't depend on him for anything. but i hope you'll let me do anything i can for you! i should be only too happy." the girl perceived the eager admiration with which the young fellow was regarding her, and her face relaxed. "thank you very much. of course i know all about mr. falloden! at cannes, we made a league to keep him in order." falloden protested vehemently that he had been a persecuted victim at cannes; the butt of lady connie and all her friends. constance, however, cut the speech short by a careless nod and good-bye, beckoned to annette and was moving away, when he placed himself before her. "but i hope we shall meet this very night--shan't we?--at the vice-chancellor's party?" "i don't know." "oh, but of course you will be there! the hoopers are quite sure to bring you. it's at st. hubert's. some old swell is coming down. the gardens are terribly romantic--and there'll be a moon. one can get away from all the stuffy people. do come!" he gave her a daring look. "good-bye," said constance again, with a slight decided gesture, which made him move out of her way. in a few moments, she and her maid were lost to sight on the crowded pavement. falloden threw back his head and laughed, as he and lord meyrick pursued the opposite direction. but he said nothing. meyrick, his junior by two years, who was now his most intimate friend in the varsity, ventured at last on the remark-- "very good-looking! but she was certainly not very civil to you, duggy!" falloden flushed hotly. "you think she dislikes me? i'll bet you anything you please she'll be at the party to-night." * * * * * constance and her maid hurried home along the broad. the girl perceived little or nothing on the way; but her face was crossed by a multitude of expressions, which meant a very active brain. perhaps sarcasm or scorn prevailed, yet mingled sometimes with distress or perplexity. the sight of the low gabled front of medburn. house recalled her thoughts. she remembered her purchases and nora's disapproving eyes. it would be better to go and beard her uncle at once. but just as she approached the house, she became aware of a slenderly built man in flannels coming out of the gates of st. cyprian's, the college of which the gate and outer court stood next door to the hoopers. he saw her, stopped with a start of pleasure, and came eagerly towards her. "lady constance! where have you sprung from? oh, i know--you are with the hoopers! have you been here long?" they shook hands, and constance obediently answered the newcomer's questions. she seemed indeed to like answering them, and nothing could have been more courteous and kind than his manner of asking them. he was clearly a senior man, a don, who, after a strenuous morning of lecturing, was hurrying--in the festal eights week--to meet some friends on the river. his face was one of singular charm, the features regular, the skin a pale olive, the hair and eyes intensely black. whereas falloden's features seemed to lie, so to speak, on the surface, the mouth and eyes scarcely disturbing the general level of the face mask--no indentation in the chin, and no perceptible hollow tinder the brow,--this man's eyes were deeply sunk, and every outline of the face--cheeks, chin and temples--chiselled and fined away into an almost classical perfection. the man's aspect indeed was greek, and ought only to have expressed the greek blitheness, the greek joy in life. but, in truth, it was a very modern and complex soul that breathed from both face and form. constance had addressed him as "mr. sorell." he turned to walk with her to her door, talking eagerly. he was asking her about various friends in whose company they had last met--apparently at rome; and he made various references to "your mother," which constance accepted gently, as though they pleased her. they paused at the hoopers' door. "but when can i see you?" he asked. "has mrs. hooper a day at home? will you come to lunch with me soon? i should like to show you my rooms. i have some of those nice things we bought at syracuse--your father and i--do you remember? and i have a jolly look out over the garden. when will you come?" "when you like. but chaperons seem to be necessary!" "oh, i can provide one--any number! some of the wives of our married fellows are great friends of mine. i should like you to know them. but wouldn't mrs. hooper bring you?" "will you write to her?" he looked a little confused. "of course i know your uncle very well. he and i work together in many things. may i come and call?" "of course you may!" she laughed again, with that wilful sound in the laugh which he remembered. he wondered how she was going to get on at the hoopers. mrs. hooper's idiosyncrasies were very generally known. he himself had always given both mrs. hooper and her eldest daughter a wide berth in the social gatherings of oxford. he frankly thought mrs. hooper odious, and had long since classed miss alice as a stupid little thing with a mild talent for flirtation. then, as he held out his hand to say good-bye, he suddenly remembered the vice-chancellor's party. "by the way, there's a big function to-night. you're going, of course? oh, yes--make them take you! i hadn't meant to go--but now i shall--on the chance!" he grasped her hand, holding it a little. then he was gone, and the hoopers' front door swung suddenly wide, opened by some one invisible. connie, a little flushed and excited, stepped into the hall, and there perceived mrs. hooper behind the door. "you are rather late, constance," said that lady coldly. "but, of course, it doesn't matter. the servants are at their dinner still, so i opened the door. so you know mr. sorell?" from which constance perceived that her aunt had observed her approach to the house, in mr. sorell's company, through the little side window of the hall. she straightened her shoulders impatiently. "my father and mother knew him in rome, aunt ellen. he used to come to our apartment. is uncle ewen in the study? i want to speak to him." she knocked and went in. standing with her back to the door she said abruptly-- "i hope you won't mind, uncle ewen, but i've been buying a few things we want, for my room and annette's. when i go, of course they can be turned out. but may i tell the shop now to send them in?" the reader turned in some embarrassment, his spectacles on his nose. "my dear girl, anything to make you comfortable! but i wish you had consulted me. of course, we would have got anything you really wanted." "oh, that would have been dreadfully unfair!" laughed constance. "it's my fault, you see. i've got far too many dresses. one seemed not to be able to do without them at cannes." "well, you won't want so many here," said dr. ewen cheerfully, as he rose from his table crowded with books. "we're all pretty simple at oxford. we ought to be of course--even our guests. it's a place of training." he dropped a greek word absently, putting away his papers the while, and thinking of the subject with which he had just been busy. constance opened the door again to make her escape, but the sound recalled dr. ewen's thoughts. "my dear--has your aunt asked you? we hope you'll come with us to the vice-chancellor's party to-night. i think it would interest you. after all, oxford's not like other places. i think you said last night you knew some undergraduates--" "i know mr. falloden of marmion," said constance, "and mr. sorell." the reader's countenance broke into smiles. "sorell? the dearest fellow in the world! he and i help each other a good deal, though of course we differ--and fight--sometimes. but that's the salt of life. yes, i remember, your mother used to mention sorell in her letters. well, with those two and ourselves, you'll have plenty of starting-points. ah, luncheon!" for the bell rang, and sent constance hurrying upstairs to take off her things. as she washed her hands, her thoughts were very busy with the incidents of her morning's walk. the colours had suddenly freshened in the oxford world. no doubt she had expected them to freshen; but hardly so soon. a tide of life welled up in her--a tide of pleasure. and as she stood a moment beside the open window of her room before going down, looking at the old oxford garden just beneath her, and the stately college front beyond, oxford itself began to capture her, touching her magically, insensibly, as it had touched the countless generations before her. she was the child of two scholars, and she had been brought up in a society both learned and cosmopolitan, traversed by all the main currents and personalities of european politics, but passionate all the same for the latest find in the forum, the newest guesses in criticism, for any fresh light that the present could shed upon the past. and when she looked back upon the moments of those roman years which had made the sharpest mark upon her, she saw three figures stand out--her gracious and graceful mother; her father, student and aristocrat, so eagerly occupied with life that he had scarcely found the time to die; and mr. sorell, her mother's friend, and then her own. together--all four--they had gone to visit the etruscan tombs about viterbo, they had explored norba and ninfa, and had spent a marvellous month at syracuse. "and i have never seen him since papa's death!--and i have only heard from him twice. i wonder why?" she pondered it resentfully. and yet what cause of offence had she? at cannes, had she thought much about him? in that scene, so troubled and feverish, compared with the old roman days, there had been for her, as she well knew, quite another dominating figure. "just the same!" she thought angrily. "just as domineering--and provoking. boggling about uncle ewen's name, as if it was not worth his remembering! i shall compel him to be civil to my relations, just because it will annoy him so much." at lunch constance declared prettily that she would be delighted to go to the vice-chancellor's party. nora sat silent through the meal. after lunch, connie went to talk to her aunt about the incoming furniture. mrs. hooper made no difficulties at all. the house had long wanted these additions, only there had been no money to buy them with. now mrs. hooper felt secretly certain that constance, when she left them, would not want to take the things with her, so that she looked on connie's purchases of the morning as her own prospective property. a furniture van appeared early in the afternoon with the things. nora hovered about the hall, severely dumb, while they were being carried upstairs. annette gave all the directions. but when later on connie was sitting at her new writing-table contemplating her transformed room with a childish satisfaction, nora knocked and came in. she walked up to connie, and stood looking down upon her. she was very red, and her eyes sparkled. "i want to tell you that i am disappointed in you--dreadfully disappointed in you!" said the girl fiercely. "what do you mean!" constance rose in amazement. "why didn't you insist on my father's buying these things? you ought to have insisted. you pay us a large sum, and you had a right. instead, you have humiliated us--because you are rich, and we are poor! it was mean--and purse-proud." "how dare you say such things?" cried connie. "you mustn't come into my room at all, if you are going to behave like this. you know very well i didn't do it unkindly. it is you who are unkind! but of course it doesn't matter. you don't understand. you are only a child!" her voice shook. "i am not a child!" said nora indignantly. "and i believe i know a great deal more about money than you do--because you have never been poor. i have to keep all the accounts here, and make mother and alice pay their debts. father, of course, is always too busy to think of such things. your money is dreadfully useful to us. i wish it wasn't. but i wanted to do what was honest--if you had only given me time. then you slipped out and did it!" constance stared in bewilderment. "are you the mistress in this house?" she said. nora nodded. her colour had all faded away, and her breath was coming quick. "i practically am," she said stoutly. "at seventeen?" asked connie, ironically. nora nodded again. connie turned away, and walked to the window. she was enraged with nora, whose attack upon her seemed quite inexplicable and incredible. then, all in a moment, a bitter forlornness overcame her. nora, standing by the table, and already pierced with remorse, saw her cousin's large eyes fill with tears. connie sat down with her face averted. but nora--trembling all over--perceived that she was crying. the next moment, the newcomer found nora kneeling beside her, in the depths of humiliation and repentance. "i am a beast!--a horrid beast! i always am. oh, please, please don't cry!" "you forget"--said connie, with difficulty--"how i--how i miss my mother!" and she broke into a fit of weeping. nora, beside herself with self-disgust, held her cousin embraced, and tried to comfort her. and presently, after an agitated half-hour, each girl seemed to herself to have found a friend. reserve had broken; they had poured out confidences to each other; and after the thunder and the shower came the rainbow of peace. before nora departed, she looked respectfully at the beautiful dress of white satin, draped with black, which annette had laid out upon the bed in readiness for the vice-chancellor's party. "it will suit you perfectly!" she said, still eager to make up. then--eyeing constance-- "you know, of course, that you are good-looking?" "i am not hideous--i know that," said constance, laughing. "you odd girl!" "we have heard often how you were admired in rome. i wonder--don't be offended!"--said nora, bluntly--"have you ever been in love?" "never!" the reply was passionately prompt. nora looked thoughtful. "perhaps you don't know whether you were or not. girls get so dreadfully mixed up. but i am sure people--men--have been in love with you." "well, of course!" said connie, with the same emphatic gaiety. nora opened her eyes. "'of course?' but i know heaps of girls with whom nobody has ever been in love!" as soon as she was alone, connie locked her door, and walked restlessly up and down her room, till by sheer movement she had tamed a certain wild spirit within her let loose by nora's question. and as she walked, the grey oxford walls, the oxford lilacs and laburnums, vanished from perception. she was in another scene. hot sun--gleaming orange-gardens and blue sea--bare-footed, black-eyed children--and a man beside her, on whom she has been showering epithets that would have shamed--surely!--any other human being in the world. tears of excitement are in her eyes; in his a laughing triumph mixed with astonishment. "but, now--" she thinks, drawing herself up, erect and tense, her hands behind her head; "now, i am ready for him. let him try such ways again--if he dare!" chapter iii the party given at st. hubert's on this evening in the eights week was given in honour of a famous guest--the lord chancellor of the day, one of the strongest members of a strong government, of whom st. hubert's, which had nurtured him through his four academic years, was quite inordinately proud. it was very seldom that their great nursling was able or willing to revisit the old nest. but the head of the college, who had been in the same class-list and rowed in the same boat with the politician, was now vice-chancellor of the university; and the greater luminary had come to shine upon the lesser, by way of heightening the dignity of both. for the man who has outsoared his fellows likes to remind himself by contrast of his callow days, before the hungry and fighting impulses had driven him down--a young eaglet--upon the sheepfolds of law and politics; while to the majority of mankind, even to-day, hero-worship, when it is not too exacting, is agreeable. so all oxford had been bidden. the great hall of st. hubert's, with its stately portraits and its emblazoned roof, had been adorned with flowers and royally lit up. from the hills round oxford the "line of festal light" made by its tudor windows, in which gleamed the escutcheons of three centuries, could have been plainly seen. the high street was full of carriages, and on the immaculate grass of the great quadrangle, groups of the guests, the men in academic costume, the women in the airiest and gayest of summer dresses, stood to watch the arrivals. the evening was clear and balmy; moonrise and dying day disputed the sky; and against its pale blue still scratched over with pale pink shreds and wisps of cloud, the grey college walls, battlemented and flecked with black, rose warmed and transfigured by that infused and golden summer in which all, oxford lay bathed. through open gateways there were visions of green gardens, girdled with lilacs and chestnuts; and above the quadrangle towered the crocketed spire of st. mary's, ethereally wrought, it seemed, in ebony and silver, the broad may moon behind it. within the hall, the guests were gathering fast. the dais of the high table was lit by the famous candelabra bequeathed to the college under queen anne; a piano stood ready, and a space had been left for the college choir who were to entertain the party. in front of the dais in academic dress stood the vice-chancellor, a thin, silver-haired man, with a determined mouth, such as befitted the champion of a hundred orthodoxies; and beside him his widowed sister, a nervous and rather featureless lady who was helping him to receive. the guest of the evening had not yet appeared. mr. sorell, in a master's gown, stood talking with a man, also in a master's gown, but much older than himself, a man with a singular head--both flat and wide--scanty reddish hair, touched with grey, a massive forehead, pale blue eyes, and a long pointed chin. among the bright colours of so many of the gowns around him--the yellow and red of the doctors of law, the red and black of the divines, the red and white of the musicians--this man's plain black was conspicuous. every one who knew oxford knew why this eminent scholar and theologian had never become a doctor of divinity. the university imposes one of her few remaining tests on her d.d's; mr. wenlock, master of beaumont, had never been willing to satisfy it, so he remained undoctored. when he preached the university sermon he preached in the black gown; while every ambitious cleric who could put a thesis together could flaunt his red and black in the vice-chancellor's procession on sundays in the university church. the face was one of mingled irony and melancholy, and there came from it sometimes the strangest cackling laugh. "well, you must show me this phoenix," he was saying in a nasal voice to sorell, who had been talking eagerly. "young women of the right sort are rare just now." "what do you call the right sort, master?" "oh, my judgment doesn't count. i only ask to be entertained." "well, talk to her of rome, and see if you are not pleased." the master shrugged his shoulders. "they can all do it--the clever sort. they know too much about the forum. they make me wish sometimes that lanciani had never been born." sorell laughed. "this girl is not a pedant." "i take your word. and of course i remember her father. no pedantry there. and all the scholarship that could be possibly expected from an earl. ah, is this she?" for in the now crowded hall, filled with the chatter of many voices, a group was making its way from the doorway, on one member of which many curious eyes had been already turned. in front came mrs. hooper, spectacled, her small nose in air, the corners of her mouth sharply drawn down. then dr. ewen, grey-haired, tall and stooping; then alice, pretty, self-conscious, provincial, and spoilt by what seemed an inherited poke; and finally a slim and stately young person in white satin, who carried her head and her long throat with a remarkable freedom and self-confidence. the head was finely shaped, and the eyes brilliant; but in the rest of the face the features were so delicate, the mouth, especially, so small and subtle, as to give a first impression of insignificance. the girl seemed all eyes and neck, and the coils of brown hair wreathed round the head were disproportionately rich and heavy. the master observing her said to himself--"no beauty!" then she smiled--at sorell apparently, who was making his way towards her--and the onlooker hurriedly suspended judgment. he noticed also that no one who looked at her could help looking again; and that the nervous expression natural to a young girl, who realises that she is admired but that policy and manners forbid her to show any pleasure in the fact, was entirely absent. "she is so used to all her advantages that she forgets them," thought the master, adding with an inward smile--"but if we forgot them--perhaps that would be another matter! yes--she is like her mother--but taller." for on that day ten years earlier, when ella risborough had taken oxford by storm, she and lord risborough had found time to look in on the master for twenty minutes, he and lord risborough having been frequent correspondents on matters of scholarship for some years. and lady risborough had chattered and smiled her way through the master's lonely house--he had only just been appointed head of his college and was then unmarried--leaving a deep impression. "i must make friends with her," he thought, following ella risborough's daughter with his eyes. "there are some gaps to fill up." he meant in the circle of his girl protégées. for the master had a curious history, well known in oxford. he had married a cousin of his own, much younger than himself; and after five years they had separated, for reasons undeclared. she was now dead, and in his troubled blue eyes there were buried secrets no one would ever know. but under what appeared to a stranger to be a harsh, pedantic exterior the master carried a very soft heart and an invincible liking for the society of young women. oxford about this time was steadily filling with girl students, who were then a new feature in its life. the master was a kind of queer patron saint among them, and to a chosen three or four, an intimate mentor and lasting friend. his sixty odd years, and the streaks of grey in his red straggling locks, his european reputation as a scholar and thinker, his old sister, and his quiet house, forbade the slightest breath of scandal in connection with these girl-friendships. yet the girls to whom the master devoted himself, whose essays he read, whose blunders he corrected, whose schools he watched over, and in whose subsequent love affairs he took the liveliest interest, were rarely or never plain to look upon. he chose them for their wits, but also for their faces. his men friends observed it with amusement. the little notes he wrote them, the birthday presents he sent them--generally some small worn copy of a french or latin classic--his coveted invitations, or congratulations, were all marked by a note of gallantry, stately and old-fashioned like the furniture of his drawing-room, but quite different from anything he ever bestowed upon the men students of his college. of late he had lost two of his chief favourites. one, a delicious creature, with a head of auburn hair and a real talent for writing verse, had left oxford suddenly to make a marriage so foolish that he really could not forgive her or put up with her intolerable husband; and the other, a muse, with the brow of one and the slenderest hand and foot, whom he and others were hopefully piloting towards a second class at least--possibly a first--in the honour classical school, had broken down in health, so that her mother and a fussy doctor had hurried her away to a rest-cure in switzerland, and thereby slit her academic life and all her chances of fame. both had been used to come--independently--for the master was in his own, way far too great a social epicure to mix his pleasures--to tea on sundays; to sit on one side of a blazing fire, while the master sat on the other, a persian cat playing chaperon on the rug between, and the book-lined walls of the master's most particular sanctum looking down upon them; while in the drawing-room beyond, miss wenlock, at the tea-table, sat patiently waiting till her domestic god should declare the seance over, allow her to make tea, and bring in the young and honoured guest. and now both charmers had vanished from the scene and had left no equals behind. the master, who possessed the same sort of tact in training young women that lord melbourne showed in educating the girl-queen, was left without his most engaging occupation. ah!--that good fellow, sorell, was bringing her up to him. "master, lady constance would like to be introduced to you." the master was immensely flattered. why should she wish to be introduced to such an old fogey? but there she was, smiling at him. "you knew my father. i am sure you did!" his elderly heart was touched, his taste captured at once. sorell had engineered it all perfectly. his description of the girl had fired the master; and his sketch of the master in the girl's ear, as a kind of girlhood's arbiter, had amused and piqued her. "yes, do introduce me! will he ever ask me to tea? i should be so alarmed!" it was all settled in a few minutes. sunday was to see her introduction to the master's inner circle, which met in summer, not between books and a blazing fire, but in the small college garden hidden amid the walls of beaumont. sorell was to bring her. the master did not even go through the form of inviting either mrs. hooper or miss hooper. in all such matters he was a chartered libertine and did what he pleased. then he watched her in what seemed something of a triumphal progress through the crowded hall. he saw the looks of the girl students from the newly-organised women's colleges--as she passed--a little askance and chill; he watched a scotch metaphysical professor, with a fiery face set in a mass of flaming hair and beard, which had won him the nickname from his philosophical pupils of "the devil in a mist," forcing an introduction to her; he saw the vice-chancellor graciously unbending, and man after man come up among the younger dons to ask sorell to present them. she received it all with a smiling and nonchalant grace, perfectly at her ease, it seemed, and ready to say the right thing to young and old. "it's the training they get--the young women of her sort--that does it," thought the master. "they are in society from their babyhood. our poor, battered aristocracy--the radicals have kicked away all its natural supports, and left it _dans l'air_; but it can still teach manners and the art to please. the undergraduates, however, seem shy of her." for although among the groups of men, who stood huddled together mostly at the back of the room, many eyes were turned upon the newcomer, no one among them approached her. she held her court among the seniors, as no doubt, thought the master, she had been accustomed to do from the days of her short frocks. he envisaged the apartment in the palazzo barberini whereof the fame had often reached oxford, for the risboroughs held open house there for the english scholar and professor on his travels. he himself had not been in rome for fifteen years, and had never made the risboroughs' acquaintance in italy. but the kind of society which gathers round the english peer of old family who takes an apartment in rome or florence for the winter was quite familiar to him--the travelling english men and women of the same class, diplomats of all nations, high ecclesiastics, a cardinal or two, the heads of the great artistic or archæological schools, americans, generals, senators, deputies--with just a sprinkling of young men. a girl of this girl's age and rank would have many opportunities, of course, of meeting young men, in the free and fascinating life of the roman spring, but primarily her business in her mother's salon would have been to help her mother, to make herself agreeable to the older men, and to gather her education--in art, literature, and politics--as a coming woman of the world from their talk. the master could see her smiling on a monsignore, carrying tea to a cardinal, or listening to the garibaldian tales of some old veteran of the risorgimento. "it is an education--of its own kind," he thought. "is it worth more or less than other kinds?" and he looked round paternally on some of the young girl students then just penetrating oxford; fresh, pleasant faces--little positive beauty--and on many the stamp, already prematurely visible, of the anxieties of life for those who must earn a livelihood. not much taste in dress, which was often clumsy and unbecoming; hair, either untidy, or treated as an enemy, scraped back, held in, the sole object being to take as little time over it as possible; and, in general, the note upon them all of an educated and thrifty middle-class. his feelings, his sympathies, were all with them. but the old gallant in him was stirred by the tall figure in white satin, winding its graceful way through the room and conquering as it went. "ah--now that fellow, herbert pryce, has got hold of her, of course! if ever there was a climber!--but what does miss hooper say?" and retreating to a safe corner the master watched with amusement the flattering eagerness with which mr. pryce, who was a fellow of his own college, was laying siege to the newcomer. pryce was rapidly making a great name for himself as a mathematician. "and is a second-rate fellow, all the same," thought the master, contemptuously, being like uncle ewen a classic of the classics. but the face of little alice hooper, which he caught from time to time, watching--with a strained and furtive attention--the conversation between pryce and her cousin, was really a tragedy; at least a tragi-comedy. some girls are born to be supplanted! but who was it sorell was, introducing to her now?--to the evident annoyance of mr. pryce, who must needs vacate the field. a striking figure of a youth! golden hair, of a wonderful ruddy shade, and a clear pale face; powerfully though clumsily made; and with a shy and sensitive expression. the master turned to enquire of a christ church don who had come up to speak to him. "who is that young man with a halo like the 'blessed damosel'?" "talking to lady constance bledlow? oh, don't you know? he is sorell's protégé, radowitz, a young musician--and poet!--so they say. sorell discovered him in paris, made great friends with him, and then persuaded him to come and take the oxford musical degree. he is at marmion, where the dons watch over him. but they say he has been abominably ragged by the rowdy set in college--led by that man falloden. do you know him?" "the fellow who got the ireland last year?" the other nodded. "as clever and as objectionable as they make 'em! ah, here comes our great man!" for amid a general stir, the lord chancellor had made his entrance, and was distributing greetings, as he passed up the hall, to his academic contemporaries and friends. he was a tall, burly man, with a strong black head and black eyes under bushy brows, combined with an infantile mouth and chin, long and happily caricatured in all the comic papers. but in his d.c.l. gown he made a very fine appearance; assembled oxford was proud of him as one of the most successful of her sons; and his progress toward the dais was almost royal. suddenly, his voice--a famous _voix d'or_, well known in the courts and in parliament--was heard above the general buzz. it spoke in astonishment and delight. "lady constance! where on earth have you sprung from? well, this is a pleasure!" and oxford looked on amused while its distinguished guest shook a young lady in white by both hands, asking eagerly a score of questions, which he would hardly allow her to answer. the young lady too was evidently pleased by the meeting; her face had flushed and lit up; and the bystanders for the first time thought her not only graceful and picturesque, but positively handsome. "ewen!" said mrs. hooper angrily in her husband's ear, "why didn't connie tell us she knew lord glaramara! she let me talk about him to her--and never said a word!--a single word!" ewen hooper shrugged his shoulders. "i'm sure i don't know, my dear." mrs. hooper turned to her daughter who had been standing silent and neglected beside her, suffering, as her mother well knew, torments of wounded pride and feeling. for although herbert pryce had been long since dismissed by connie, he had not yet returned to the side of the eldest miss hooper. "i don't like such ways," said mrs. hooper, with sparkling eyes. "it was ill-bred and underhanded of connie not to tell us at once--i shall certainly speak to her about it!" "it makes us look such fools," said alice, her mouth pursed and set. "i told mr. pryce that connie knew no one to-night, except mr. sorell and mr. falloden." * * * * * the hall grew more crowded; the talk more furious. lord glaramara insisted, with the wilfulness of the man who can do as he pleases, that constance bledlow--whoever else came and went--should stay beside him. "you can't think what i owed to her dear people in rome three years ago!" he said to the vice-chancellor. "i adored her mother! and constance is a charming child. she and i made great friends. has she come to live in oxford for a time? lucky oxford! what--with the hoopers? don't know 'em. i shall introduce her to some of my particular allies." which he did in profusion, so that constance found herself bewildered by a constant stream of new acquaintances--fellows, professors, heads of colleges--of various ages and types, who looked at her with amused and kindly eyes, talked to her for a few pleasant minutes and departed, quite conscious that they had added a pebble to the girl's pile and delighted to do it. "it is your cousin, not the lord chancellor, who is the guest of the evening!" laughed herbert pryce, who had made his way back at last to alice hooper. "i never saw such a success!" alice tossed her head in a petulant silence; and a madrigal by the college choir checked any further remarks from mr. pryce. after the madrigal came a general move for refreshments, which were set out in the college library and in the garden. the lord chancellor must needs offer his arm to his host's sister, and lead the way. the warden followed, with the wife of the dean of christ church, and the hall began to thin. lord glaramara looked back, smiling and beckoning to constance, as though to say--"don't altogether desert me!" but a voice--a tall figure--interposed-- "lady constance, let me take you into the garden? it's much nicer than upstairs." a slight shiver ran, unseen, through the girl's frame. she wished to say no; she tried to say no. and instead she looked up--haughty, but acquiescent. "very well." and she followed douglas falloden through the panelled passage outside the hall leading to the garden. sorell, who had hurried up to find her, arrived in time to see her disappearing through the lights and shadows of the moonlit lawn. * * * * * "we can do this sort of thing pretty well, can't we? it's banal because it happens every year, and because it's all mixed up with salmon mayonnaise, and cider-cup--and it isn't banal, because it's oxford!" [illustration: _constance sat in the shadow of a plane-tree with falloden at her feet_] constance was sitting under the light shadow of a plane-tree, not yet fully out; falloden was stretched on the grass at her feet. before her ran a vast lawn which had taken generations to make; and all round it, masses of flowering trees, chestnuts, lilacs, laburnums, now advancing, now receding, made inlets or promontories of the grass, turned into silver by the moonlight. at the furthest edge, through the pushing pyramids of chestnut blossom and the dim drooping gold of the laburnums, could be seen the bastions and battlements of the old city wall, once a fighting reality, now tamed into the mere ornament and appendage of this quiet garden. over the trees and over the walls rose the spires and towers of a wondrous city; while on the grass, or through the winding paths disappearing into bosky distances, flickered white dresses, and the slender forms of young men and maidens. a murmur of voices rose and fell on the warm night air; the sound of singing--the thin sweetness of boyish notes--came from the hall, whose decorated windows, brightly lit, shone out over the garden. "it's oxford--and it's brahms," said constance. "i seem to have known it all before in music: the trees--the lawn--the figures--appearing and disappearing--the distant singing--" she spoke in a low, dreamy tone, her chin propped on her hand. nothing could have been, apparently, quieter or more self-governed than her attitude. but her inner mind was full of tumult; resentful memory; uneasy joy; and a tremulous fear, both of herself and of the man at her feet. and the man knew it, or guessed it. he dragged himself a little nearer to her on the grass. "why didn't you tell me when you were coming?" the tone was light and laughing. "i owe you no account of my actions," said the girl quickly. "we agreed to be friends." "no! we are not friends." she spoke with suppressed violence, and breaking a twig from the tree overshadowing her, she threw it from her, as though the action were a relief. he sat up, looking up into her face, his hands clasped round his knees. "that means you haven't forgiven me?" "it means that i judge and despise you," she said passionately; "and that it was not an attraction to me to find you here--quite the reverse!" "yet here you are--sitting with me in this garden--and you are looking delicious! that dress becomes you so--you are so graceful--so exquisitely graceful. and you never found a more perfect setting than this place--these lawns and trees--and the old college walls. oxford was waiting for you, and you for oxford. are you laughing at me?" "naturally!" "i could rave on by the hour if you would listen to me." "we have both something better to do--thank goodness! may i ask if you are doing any work?" he laughed. "ten hours a day. this is my first evening out since march. i came to meet you." constance bowed ironically. then for the first time, since their conversation began, it might have been seen that she had annoyed him. "friends are not allowed to doubt each other's statements!" he said with animation. "you see i still persist that you allowed me that name, when--you refused me a better. as to my work, ask any of my friends. talk to meyrick. he is a dear boy, and will tell you anything you like. he and i 'dig' together in beaumont street. my schools are now only three weeks off. i work four hours in the morning. then i play till six--and get in another six hours between then and a.m." "wonderful!" said constance coolly. "your ways at cannes were different. it's a mercy there's no monte carlo within reach." "i play when i play, and work when i work!" he said with emphasis. "the only thing to hate and shun always--is moderation." "and yet you call yourself a classic! well, you seem to be sure of your first. at least uncle ewen says so." "ewen hooper? he is a splendid fellow--a real hellenist. he and i get on capitally. about your aunt--i am not so sure." "nobody obliges you to know her," was the tranquil reply. "ah!--but if she has the keeping of you! are you coming to tea with me and my people? i have got a man in college to lend me his rooms. my mother and sister will be up for two nights. very inconsiderate of them--with my schools coming on--but they would do it. thursday?--before the eights? won't my mother be chaperon enough?" "certainly. but it only puts off the evil day." "when i must grovel to mrs. hooper?--if i am to see anything of you? splendid! you are trying to discipline me again--as you did at cannes!" in the semidarkness she could see the amusement in his eyes. her own feeling, in its mingled weakness and antagonism, was that of the feebler wrestler just holding his ground, and fearing every moment to be worsted by some unexpected trick of the game. she gave no signs of it, however. "i tried, and i succeeded!" she said, as she rose. "you found out that rudeness to my friends didn't answer! shall we go and get some lemonade? wasn't that why you brought me here? i think i see the tent." they walked on together. she seemed to see--exultantly--that she had both angered and excited him. "i am never rude," he declared. "i am only honest! only nobody, in this mealy-mouthed world, allows you to be honest; to say and do exactly what represents you. but i shall not be rude to anybody under your wing. promise me to come to tea, and i will appear to call on your aunt and behave like any sucking dove." constance considered it. "lady laura must write to aunt ellen." "of course. any other commands?" "not at present." "then let me offer some humble counsels in return. i beg you not to make friends with that red-haired _poseur_ i saw you talking to in the hall." "mr. radowitz!--the musician? i thought him delightful! he is coming to play to me to-morrow." "ah, i thought so!" said falloden wrathfully. "he is an impossible person. he wears a frilled shirt, scents himself, and recites his own poems when he hasn't been asked. and he curries favour--abominably--with the dons. he is a smug--of the first water. there is a movement going on in college to suppress him. i warn you i may not be able to keep out of it." "he is an artist!" cried constance. "you have only to look at him, to talk to him, to see it. and artists are always persecuted by stupid people. but you are not stupid!" "yes, i am, where _poseurs_ are concerned," said falloden coldly. "i prefer to be. never mind. we won't excite ourselves. he is not worth it. perhaps he'll improve--in time. but there is another man i warn you against--mr. herbert pryce." "a great friend of my cousins'," said constance mockingly. "i know. he is always flirting with the eldest girl. it is a shame; for he will never marry her. he wants money and position, and he is so clever he will get them. he is not a gentleman, and he rarely tells the truth. but he is sure to make up to you. i thought i had better tell you beforehand." "my best thanks! you breathe charity!" "no--only prudence. and after my schools i throw my books to the dogs, and i shall have a fortnight more of term with nothing to do except--are you going to ride?" he asked her abruptly. "you said at cannes that you meant to ride when you came to oxford." "my aunt doesn't approve." "as if that would stop you! i can tell you where you can get a horse--a mare that would just suit you. i know all the stables in oxford. wait till we meet on thursday. would you care to ride in lathom woods? (he named a famous estate near oxford.) i have a permit, and could get you one. they are relations of mine." constance excused herself, but scarcely with decision. her plans, she said, must depend upon her cousins. falloden smiled and dropped the subject for the moment. then, as they moved on together through the sinuous ways of the garden, flooded with the scent of hawthorns and lilacs, towards the open tent crowded with folk at the farther end, there leapt in both the same intoxicating sense of youth and strength, the same foreboding of passion, half restlessness, and half enchantment.... * * * * * "i looked for you everywhere," said sorell, as he made his way to constance through the crowd of departing guests in the college gateway. "where did you hide yourself? the lord chancellor was sad not to say good-bye to you." constance summoned an answering tone of regret. "how good of him! i was only exploring the garden--with mr. falloden." at the name, there was a quick and stiffening change in sorell's face. "you knew him before? yes--he told me. a queer fellow--very able. they say he'll get his first. well--we shall meet at the eights and then we'll make plans. goodnight." he smiled on her, and went his way, ruminating uncomfortably as he walked back to his college along the empty midnight streets. falloden? it was to be hoped there was nothing in that! how ella risborough would have detested the type! but there was much that was not her mother in the daughter. he vowed to himself that he would do his small best to watch over ella risborough's child. there was little or no conversation in the four-wheeler that bore the hooper party home. mrs. hooper and alice were stiffly silent, while the reader chaffed constance a little about her successes of the evening. but he, too, was sleepy and tired, and the talk dropped. as they lighted their bedroom candles in the hall, mrs. hooper said to her niece, in her thin, high tone, mincing and coldly polite: "i think it would have been better, constance, if you had told us you knew lord glaramara. i don't wish to find fault, but such--such concealments--are really very awkward!" constance opened her eyes. she could have defended herself easily. she had no idea that her aunt was unaware of the old friendship between her parents and lord glaramara, who was no more interesting to her personally than many others of their roman _habitués_, of whom the world was full. but she was too preoccupied to spend any but the shortest words on such a silly thing. "i'm sorry, aunt ellen. i really didn't understand." and she went up to bed, thinking only of falloden; while alice followed her, her small face pinched and weary, her girlish mind full of pain. chapter iv on the day after the vice-chancellor's party, falloden, after a somewhat slack morning's work, lunched in college with meyrick. after hall, the quadrangle was filled with strolling men, hatless and smoking, discussing the chances of the eights, the last debate at the union, and the prospects of individual men in the schools. presently the sound of a piano was heard from the open windows of a room on the first floor. "great scott!" said falloden irritably to meyrick, with whom he was walking arm in arm, "what a noise that fellow radowitz makes! why should we have to listen to him? he behaves as though the whole college belonged to him. we can't hear ourselves speak." "treat him like a barrel-organ and remove him!" said meyrick, laughing. he was a light-hearted, easy-going youth, a "fresher" in his first summer term, devoted to falloden, whose physical and intellectual powers seemed to him amazing. "bombard him first!" said falloden. "who's got some soda-water bottles?" and he beckoned imperiously to a neighbouring group of men,--"bloods"--always ready to follow him in a "rag," and heroes together with him of a couple of famous bonfires, in falloden's first year. they came up, eager for any mischief, the summer weather in their veins like wine. they stood round falloden laughing and chaffing, till finally three of them disappeared at his bidding. they came rushing back, from various staircases, laden with soda-water bottles. then falloden, with two henchmen, placed himself under radowitz's windows, and summoned the offender in a stentorian voice: "radowitz! stop that noise!" no answer--except that radowitz in discoursing some "music of the future," and quite unaware of the shout from below, pounded and tormented the piano more than ever. the waves of crashing sound seemed to fill the quadrangle. "we'll summon him thrice!" said falloden. "then--fire!" but radowitz remained deaf, and the assailant below gave the order. three strong right arms below discharged three soda-water bottles, which went through the open window. "my goody!" said meyrick, "i hope he's well out of the way!" there was a sound of breaking glass. then radowitz, furious, appeared at his window, his golden hair more halolike than ever in the bright sun. "what are you doing, you idiots?" "stop that noise, radowitz!" shouted falloden. "it annoys us!" "can't help it. it pleases me," said radowitz shortly, proceeding to close the window. but he had scarcely done so, when falloden launched another bottle, which went smash through the window and broke it. the glass fell out into the quadrangle, raising all the echoes. the rioters below held their laughing breaths. "i say, what about the dons?" said one. "keep a lookout!" said another. but meanwhile radowitz had thrown up the injured window, and crimson with rage he leaned far out and flung half a broken bottle at the group below. all heads ducked, but the ragged missile only just missed meyrick's curly poll. "not pretty that!--not pretty at all!" said falloden coolly. "might really have done some mischief. we'll avenge you, meyrick. follow me, you fellows!" and in one solid phalanx, they charged, six or seven strong, up radowitz's staircase. but he was ready for them. the oak was sported, and they could hear him dragging some heavy chairs against it. meanwhile, from the watchers left in the quad, came a loud cough. "dons!--by jove! scatter!" and they rushed further up the staircase, taking refuge in the rooms of two of the "raggers." the lookout in the quadrangle turned to walk quietly towards the porter's lodge. the senior tutor--a spare tall man with a jove-like brow--emerged from the library, and stood on the steps surveying the broken glass. "all run to cover, of course!" was his reflection, half scornful, half disgusted. "but i am certain i heard falloden's voice. what a puppy stage it is! they would be much better employed worrying old boots!" but philosopher or no, he got no clue. the quadrangle was absolutely quiet and deserted, save for the cheeping of the swallows flitting across it, and the whistling of a lad in the porter's lodge. the senior tutor returned to the library, where he was unpacking a box of new books. the rioters emerged at discreet intervals, and rejoined each other in the broad street outside the college. "vengeance is still due!"--said falloden, towering among them, always with the faithful and grinning meyrick at his side--"and we will repay. but now, to our tents! ta, ta!" and dismissing them all, including meyrick, he walked off alone in the direction of holywell. he was going to look out a horse for constance bledlow. as he walked, he said to himself that he was heartily sick of this oxford life, ragging and all. it was a good thing it was so nearly done. he meant to get his first, because he didn't choose, having wasted so much time over it, not to get it. but it wouldn't give him any particular pleasure to get it. the only thing that really mattered was that constance bledlow was in oxford, and that when his schools were over, he would have nothing to do but to stay on two or three weeks and force the running with her. he felt himself immeasurably older than his companions with whom he had just been rioting. his mind was set upon a man's interests and aims--marriage, travel, parliament; they were still boys, without a mind among them. none the less, there was an underplot running through his consciousness all the time as to how best to punish radowitz--both for his throw, and his impertinence in monopolising a certain lady for at least a quarter of an hour on the preceding evening. at the well-known livery-stables in holywell, he found a certain animation. horses were in demand, as there were manoeuvres going on in blenheim park, and the minds of both dons and undergraduates were drawn thither. but falloden succeeded in getting hold of the manager and absorbing his services at once. "show you something really good, fit for a lady?" the manager took him through the stables, and falloden in the end picked out precisely the beautiful brown mare of which he had spoken to constance. "nobody else is to ride her, please, till the lady i am acting for has tried her," he said peremptorily to fox. "i shall try her myself to-morrow. and what about a groom?--a decent fellow, mind, with a decent livery." he saw a possible man and another horse, reserving both provisionally. then he walked hurriedly to his lodgings to see if by any chance there were a note for him there. he had wired to his mother the day before, telling her to write to constance bledlow and mrs. hooper by the evening's post, suggesting that, on thursday before the eights, lady laura should pick her up at medburn house, take her to tea at falloden's lodgings and then on to the eights. lady laura was to ask for an answer addressed to the lodgings. he found one--a little note with a crest and monogram he knew well. medburn house. "dear mr. falloden,--i am very sorry i can not come to tea to-morrow. but my aunt and cousins seem to have made an engagement for me. no doubt i shall see lady laura at the boats. my aunt thanks her for her kind letter. "yours very truly, "constance bledlow." falloden bit his lip. he had reckoned on an acceptance, having done everything that had been prescribed to him; and he felt injured. he walked on, fuming and meditating, to vincent's club, and wrote a reply. "dear lady constance,--a thousand regrets! i hope for better luck next time. meanwhile, as you say, we shall meet to-morrow at the eights. i have spent much time to-day in trying to find you a horse, as we agreed. the mare i told you of is really a beauty. i am going to try her to-morrow, and will report when we meet. i admire your nepticular (i believe _neptis_ is the latin for niece) docility! "yours sincerely, "douglas falloden." "will that offend her?" he thought. "but a pin-prick is owed. i was distinctly given to understand that if the proprieties were observed, she would come." in reality, however, he was stimulated by her refusal, as he was by all forms of conflict, which, for him, made the zest of life. he shut himself up that evening and the following morning with his greats work. then he and meyrick rushed up to the racket courts in the parks for an hour's hard exercise, after which, in the highest physical spirits, a splendid figure in his white flannels, with the dark blue cap and sash of the harrow eleven--(he had quarrelled with the captain of the varsity eleven very early in his oxford career, and by an heroic sacrifice to what he conceived to be his dignity had refused to let himself be tried for it)--he went off to meet his mother and sister at the railway station. it was, of course, extremely inconsiderate of his mother to be coming at all in these critical weeks before the schools. she ought to have kept away. and yet he would be very glad to see her--and nelly. he was fond of his home people, and they of him. they were his belongings--and they were fallodens. therefore his strong family pride accepted them, and made the most of them. but his countenance fell when, as the train slowed into the railway station, he perceived beckoning to him from the windows, not two fallodens, but four! "what has mother been about?" he stood aghast. for there were not only lady laura and nelly, but trix, a child of eleven, and roger, the winchester boy of fourteen, who was still at home after an attack of measles. they beamed at him as they descended. the children were quite aware they were superfluous, and fell upon him with glee. "you don't want us, duggy, we know! but we made mother bring us." "mother, really you ought to have given me notice!" said her reproachful son. "what am i to do with these brats?" but the brats hung upon him, and his mother, "fat, fair and forty," smiled propitiatingly. "oh, my dear duggy, never mind. they amuse themselves. they've promised to be good. and they get into mischief in london, directly my back's turned. how nice you look in flannels, dear! are you going to row this afternoon?" "well, considering you know that my schools are coming on in a fortnight--" said falloden, exasperated. "it's so annoying of them!" said lady laura, sighing. "i wanted to bring nelly up for two or three weeks. we could have got a house. but your father wouldn't hear of it." "i should rather think not! mother, do you want me to get a decent degree, or do you not?" "but of course you're sure to," said lady laura with provoking optimism, hanging on his arm. "and now give us some tea, for we're all ravenous! and what about that girl, lady constance?" "she can't come. her aunt has made another engagement for her. you'll meet her at the boats." lady laura looked relieved. "well then, we can go straight to our tea. but of course i wrote. i always do what you tell me, duggy. come along, children!" "trix and i got a packet of banbury cakes at didcot," reported roger, in triumph, showing a greasy paper. "but we've eat 'em all." "little pigs!" said falloden, surveying them. "and now i suppose you're going to gorge again?" "we shall disgrace you!" shouted both the children joyously--"we knew we should!" but falloden hunted them all into a capacious fly, and they drove off to marmion, where a room had been borrowed for the tea-party. falloden sat on the box with folded arms and a sombre countenance. why on earth had his mother brought the children? it was revolting to have to appear on the barge with such a troop. and all his time would be taken up with looking after them--time which he wanted for quite other things. however, he was in for it. at marmion he led the party through two quads and innumerable passages, till he pointed to a dark staircase up which they climbed, each member of the family--except the guide--talking at the top of their voices. on the third floor, falloden paused and herded them into the room of a shy second-year man, very glad to do such a "blood" as falloden a kindness, and help entertain his relations. "well, thank god, i've got you in!" said falloden gloomily, as he shut the door behind the last of them. * * * * * "how duggy does hustle us! i've had nothing of a tea!" said roger, looking resentfully, his mouth full of cake, at his elder brother, who was already beginning to take out his watch, to bid his mother and sisters resume their discarded jackets, and to send a scout for a four-wheeler. but falloden was inexorable. he tore his sister nelly, a soft fluffy creature of seventeen, away from the shy attentions of the second-year man, scoffed in disgust at trix's desire for chocolates after a gargantuan meal, and declared that they would all be late for the eights, if any more gorging was allowed. his mother rose obediently. to be seen with such a son in the crowded oxford streets filled her with pride. she could have walked beside him for hours. at the college gate, trix pinched her brother's arm. "well, duggy, say it!" "say what, you little scug?" "'thank god, i've got you out!'" laughed the child, laying her cheek against his coat-sleeve. "that's what you're thinking. you know you are. i say, duggy, you do look jolly in those colours!" "don't talk rot!" grumbled falloden, but he winked at her in brotherly fashion, and trix was more than happy. like her mother, she believed that douglas was simply the handsomest and cleverest fellow in the world. when he scolded it was better than other people's praise, and when he gave you a real private wink, it raised a sister to the skies. on such soil does male arrogance grow! soon they were in the stream of people crossing christ church river on their way to the boats. the may sunshine lay broad on the buttercup meadows, on the christ church elms, on the severe and blackened front of corpus, on the long gabled line of merton. the river glittered in the distance, and towards it the crowd of its worshippers--young girls in white, young men in flannels, elderly fathers and mothers from a distance, and young fathers and mothers from the rising tutorial homes of oxford--made their merry way. falloden looked in all directions for the hooper party. a new anxiety and eagerness were stirring in him which he resented, which he tried to put down. he did not wish, he did not intend, if he could help it, to be too much in love with anybody. he was jealous of his own self-control, and intensely proud of his own strength of will, as he might have been of a musical or artistic gift. it was his particular gift, and he would not have it weakened. he had seen men do the most idiotic things for love. he did not intend to do such things. love should be strictly subordinate to a man's career; women should be subordinate. at the same time, from the second week of their acquaintance on the riviera, he had wished to marry constance bledlow. he had proposed to her, only to be promptly refused, and on one mad afternoon, in the woods of the esterels, he had snatched a kiss. what an amazing fuss she made about that kiss! he thought she would have cut him for ever. it was with the greatest difficulty, and only after a grovelling apology, that he had succeeded in making his peace. yet all through the days of her wrath he had been quite certain that he would in the end appease her; which meant a triumphant confidence on his part that to a degree she did not herself admit or understand, he had captured her. her resolute refusal to correspond with him, even after they had made it up and he was on the point of returning to oxford, had piqued him indeed. but he was aware that she was due at oxford, as her uncle's ward, some time in may; and meanwhile he had coolly impressed upon himself that in the interests of his work, it was infinitely better he should be without the excitement of her letters. by the time she arrived, he would have got through the rereading of his principal books, which a man must do in the last term before the schools, and could begin to "slack." and after the schools, he could devote himself. but now that they had met again, he was aware of doubts and difficulties that had not yet assailed him. that she was not indifferent to him--that his presence still played upon her nerves and senses--so much he had verified. but during their conversation at the vice-chancellor's party he had become aware of something hard and resistant in her--in her whole attitude towards him--which had considerably astonished him. his arrogant self-confidence had reckoned upon the effect of absence, as making her softer and more yielding when they met again. the reverse seemed to be the case, and he pondered it with irritation.... "oh, duggy, isn't it ripping?" cried trix, leaping and sidling at his elbow like a young colt. for they had reached the river, which lay a vivid blue, flashing under the afternoon sun and the fleecy clouds. along it lay the barges, a curving many-tinted line, their tall flag-staffs flying the colours of the colleges to which they belonged, their decks crowded with spectators. innumerable punts were crossing and recrossing the river--the towing-path opposite was alive with men. everything danced and glittered, the white reflections in the river, the sun upon the oars, the row of extravagantly green poplars on the further bank. how strong and lusty was the may light!--the yellow green of the elms--the gold of the buttercupped meadow! only the dying moon in the high blue suggested a different note; as of another world hidden behind the visible world, waiting patiently, mysteriously, to take its place--to see it fade. "oh, duggy, there's somebody waving to you. oh, it's lord meyrick. and who's that girl with him? she's bowing to you, too. she's got an awfully lovely frock! oh, duggy, do look at her!" falloden had long since looked at her. he turned carelessly to his mother. "there's meyrick, mother, on that barge in front. you know you're dining with him to-night in christ church. and that's constance bledlow beside him, to whom i asked you to write." "oh, is it? a good-looking girl," said his mother approvingly. "and who is that man beside her, with the extraordinary hair? he looks like somebody in lohengrin." falloden laughed, but not agreeably. "you've about hit it! he's a marmion man. a silly, affected creature--half a pole. his music is an infernal nuisance in college. we shall suppress it and him some day." "what barge is it, duggy? are we going there?" falloden replied impatiently that the barge they were nearing belonged to christ church, and they were bound for the marmion barge, much further along. meanwhile he asked himself what could have taken the hooper party to the christ church barge? ewen hooper was a llandaff man, and llandaff, a small and insignificant college, shared a barge with another small college some distance down the river. as they approached the barge he saw that while constance had radowitz on her right, sorell of st. cyprian's stood on the other side of her. ah, no doubt, that accounted for it. sorell had been originally at "the house," was still a lecturer there, and very popular. he had probably invited the hoopers with their niece. it was, of course, the best barge in the best position. falloden remembered how at the vice-chancellor's party sorell had hovered about constance, assuming a kind of mild guardianship; until he himself had carried her off. why? what on earth had she to do with sorell? well, he must find out. meanwhile, she clearly did not intend to take any further notice of his neighbourhood. sorell and radowitz absorbed her. they were evidently explaining the races to her, and she stood between them, a docile and charming vision, turning her graceful head from side to side. falloden and his party crossed her actual line of sight. but she took no further notice; and he heard her laugh at something radowitz was saying. "oh, mr. falloden, is that you--and lady laura! this is a pleasure!" he turned to see a lady whom he cordially detested--a head's wife, who happened to be an "honourable," the daughter of a small peer, and terribly conscious of the fact. she might have reigned in oxford; she preferred to be a much snubbed dependent of london, and the smart people whose invitations she took such infinite trouble to get. for she was possessed of two daughters, tall and handsome girls, who were an obsession to her, an irritation to other people, and a cause of blushing to themselves. her instinct for all men of family or title to be found among the undergraduates was amazingly extensive and acute; and she had paid much court to falloden, as the prospective heir to a marquisate. he had hitherto treated her with scant attention, but she was not easily abashed, and she fastened at once on lady laura, whom she had seen once at a london ball. "where are you going, lady laura? to marmion? oh, no! come on to our barge, you will see so much better, and save yourself another dusty bit of walk. here we are!" and she waved her parasol gaily towards a barge immediately ahead, belonging to one of the more important colleges. lady laura looked doubtfully at her son. falloden suddenly accepted, and with the utmost cordiality. "that's really very good of you, mrs. manson! i shall certainly advise my mother to take advantage of your kind offer. but you can't do with all of us!" he pointed smiling to trix and roger. "of course i can! the more the merrier!" and the lively lady stooped, laid an affectionate hand on roger's shoulder, and said in a stage aside--"our ices are very good!" roger hastily retreated. * * * * * the starting-gun had boomed--communicating the usual thrill and sudden ripple of talk through the crowded barges. "now they're off!" lady laura, nelly, and "the babes" hung over the railing of the barge, looking excitedly for the first nose of a boat coming round the bend. falloden, between the two fair-haired miss mansons, manoeuvred them and himself into a position at the rear where he could both see and be seen by the party on the christ church barge, amid which a certain large white hat with waving feathers shone conspicuous. the two girls between whom he stood, who had never found him in the least accessible before, were proud to be seen with him, and delighted to try their smiles on him. they knew he was soon going down, and they had visions of dancing with him in london, of finding an acquaintance, perhaps even a friend, at last, in those chilly london drawing-rooms, before which, if their mother knew no such weakness, they often shivered. falloden looked down upon them with a half sarcastic, half benignant patronage, and made himself quite agreeable. from the barge next door, indeed, the manson and falloden parties appeared to be on the most intimate terms. mrs. manson, doing the honours of the college boat, flattering lady laura, gracious to the children, and glancing every now and then at her two girls and their handsome companion, was enjoying a crowded and successful moment. but she too was aware of the tall girl in white on the neighbouring deck, and she turned enquiringly to falloden. "do you know who she is?" "the risboroughs' daughter--lady constance bledlow." mrs. manson's eyebrows went up. "indeed! of course i knew her parents intimately! where is she staying?" falloden briefly explained. "but how very interesting! i must call upon her at once. but--i scarcely know the hoopers!" falloden hung over the barge rail, and smiled unseen. "here they come!--here they come!" shouted the children, laying violent hands on falloden that he might identify the boats for them. up rolled a mighty roar from the lower reaches of the river as the boats came in sight, "univ" leading; and the crowd of running and shouting men came rushing along the towing-path. "univ" was gallantly "bumped" in front of its own barge, and magdalen went head of the river. a delirious twenty minutes followed. bump crashed on bump. the river in all its visible length flashed with the rising and falling oars--the white bodies of the rowers strained back and forth. but it was soon over, and only the cheering for the victorious crews remained; and the ices--served to the visitors!--of which roger was not slow to remind his hostess. the barges emptied, and the crowd poured out again into the meadows. just outside the christ church barge, constance with nora beside her, and escorted by sorell and lord meyrick, lifted a pair of eyes to a tall fellow in immaculate flannels and a harrow cap. she had been aware of his neighbourhood, and he of hers, long before it was possible to speak. falloden introduced his mother. then he resolutely took possession of constance. "i hope you approve what i have been doing about the mare?" "i am of course most grateful. when am i to try her?" "i shall take her out to-morrow afternoon. then i'll report." "it is extremely kind of you." the tone was strictly conventional. he said nothing; and after a minute she could not help looking up. she met an expression which showed a wounded gentleman beside her. "i hope you saw the races well?" he said coldly. "excellently. and mr. sorell explained everything." "you knew him before?" "but of course!" she said, laughing. "i have known him for years." "you never mentioned him--at cannes." "one does not always catalogue one's acquaintance, does one?" "he seems to be more than an acquaintance." "oh, yes. he is a great friend. mamma was so fond of him. he went with us to sicily once. and uncle ewen likes him immensely." "he is of course a paragon," said falloden. constance glanced mockingly at her companion. "i don't see why he should be called anything so disagreeable. all we knew of him was--that he was delightful! so learned--and simple--and modest--the dearest person to travel with! when he left us at palermo, the whole party seemed to go flat." "you pile it on!" "not at all. you asked me if he were more than an acquaintance. i am giving you the facts." "i don't enjoy them!" said falloden abruptly. she burst into her soft laugh. "i'm so sorry. but i really can't alter them. where has my party gone to?" she looked ahead, and saw that by a little judicious holding back falloden had dexterously isolated her both from his own group and hers. mrs. manson and lady laura were far ahead in the wide, moving crowd that filled the new-made walk across the christ church meadow; so were the hoopers and the slender figure and dark head of alexander sorell. "don't distress yourself, please. we shall catch them up before we get to merton street. and this only pays the very smallest fraction of your debt! i understood that if my mother wrote--" she coloured brightly. "i didn't promise!" she said hastily. "and i found the hoopers were counting on me." "no doubt. oh, i don't grumble. but when friends--suppose we take the old path under the wall? it is much less crowded." and before she knew where she was, she had been whisked out of the stream of visitors and undergraduates, and found herself walking almost in solitude in the shadow of one of the oldest walls in oxford, the cathedral towering overhead, the crowd moving at some distance on their right. "that's better," said falloden coolly. "may i go on? i was saying that when one friend disappoints another--bitterly!--there is such a thing as making up!" there were beautiful notes in falloden's deep voice, when he chose to employ them. he employed them now, and the old thrill of something that was at once delight and fear ran through constance. but she looked him in the face, apparently quite unmoved. "now it is you who are piling it on! you will use such tragic expressions for the most trivial things. of course, i am sorry if--" "then make amends!"--he said quickly. "promise me--if the mare turns out well--you will ride in lathom woods--on saturday?" his eyes shone upon her. the force of the man's personality seemed to envelope her, to beat down the resistance which, as soon as he was out of her sight, the wiser mind in her built up. she hesitated--smiled. and again the smile--or was it the may sun and wind?--gave her that heightening, that touch of brilliance that a face so delicate must often miss. falloden's fastidious sense approved her wholly: the white dress; the hat that framed her brow; the slender gold chains which rose and fell on her gently rounded breast; her height and grace. passion beat within him. he hung on her answer. "saturday--impossible! i am not free till monday, at least. and what about the groom?" she looked up. "i shall parade him to-morrow, livery, horse and all. i undertake he shall give satisfaction. the lathom woods just now are a dream!" "it is all a dream!" she said, looking round her at the beauty of field and tree, of the may clouds, and the grey college walls--youth and youth's emotion speaking in the sudden softening of her eyes. he saw--he felt her--yielding. "you'll come?" "i--i suppose i may as well ride in lathom woods as anywhere else. you have a key?" "the groom will have it. i meet you there." she flushed a bright pink. "that might have been left vague!" "how are you to find your way through those woods without a guide?" he protested. she was silent a moment, then she said with decision: "i must overtake my people." "you shall. i want you to talk to my mother--and--you have still to introduce me to your aunt and cousins." mirth crept into her eyes. the process of taming him had begun. * * * * * falloden on the way back to his lodgings handed over his family to the tender offices of meyrick and a couple of other gilded youths, who had promised to look after them for the evening. they were to dine at the randolph, and go to a college concert. falloden washed his hands of them, and shut himself up for five or six hours' grind, broken only by a very hasty meal. the thought of constance hovered about him--but his will banished it. will and something else--those aptitudes of brain which determined his quick and serviceable intelligence. when after his frugal dinner he gave himself in earnest to the article in a french magazine, on a new french philosopher, which had been recommended to him by his tutor as likely to be of use to him in his general philosophy paper, his mind soon took fire; constance was forgotten, and he lost himself in the splendour shed by the original and creative thought of a great man, climbing, under his guidance, as the night wore on, from point to point, and height to height, amid the oxford silence, broken only by the chiming bells, and a benighted footfall in the street outside, until he seemed to have reached the bounds of the phenomenal and to be close on that outer vastness whence stream the primal forces--_die mütter_--as goethe called them--whose play is with the worlds. then by way of calming the brain before sleep, he fell upon some notes to be copied and revised, on the "religious aspects of greek drama," and finally amused himself with running through an ingenious "memoria technica" on the th book of the ethics which he had made for himself during the preceding winter. then work was done, and he threw it from him with the same energy as that wherewith he had banished the remembrance of constance some hours before. now he could walk his room in the may dawn, and think of her, and only of her. with all the activity of his quickened mental state, he threw himself into the future--their rides together--their meetings, few and measured till the schools were done--then!--all the hours of life, and a man's most obstinate effort, spent in the winning of her. he knew well that she would be difficult to win. but he meant to win her--and before others could seriously approach her. he was already nervously jealous of sorell--and contemptuously jealous of radowitz. and if they could torment him so, what would it be when constance passed into that larger world of society to which sooner or later she was bound? no, she was to be wooed and married now. the falloden custom was to marry early--and a good custom too. his father would approve, and money from the estate would of course be forthcoming. constance was on her father's side extremely well-born; the hooper blood would soon be lost sight of in a risborough and falloden descent. she was sufficiently endowed; and she had all the grace of person and mind that a falloden had a right to look for in his wife. marriage, then, in the autumn, when he would be twenty-four--two years of travel--then parliament-- on this dream he fell asleep. a brisk wind sprang up with the sunrise, and rustled round his lightly-darkened room. one might have heard in it the low laughter of fortune on the watch. chapter v "you do have the oddest ways," said nora, perched at the foot of her cousin's bed; "why do you stay in bed to breakfast?" "because i always have--and because it's the proper and reasonable thing to do," said constance defiantly. "your english custom of coming down at half past eight to eat poached eggs and bacon is perfectly detestable." she waved her teaspoon in nora's face, and nora reflected--though her sunburnt countenance was still severe--that connie was never so attractive as when, in the freshest of white dressing-gowns, propped among the lace and silk of her ridiculous pillows and bedspreads, she was toying with the coffee and roll which annette brought her at eight o'clock, as she had been accustomed to bring it since connie was a child. mrs. hooper had clearly expressed her disapproval of such habits, but neither annette nor connie had paid any attention. annette had long since come to an understanding with the servants, and it was she who descended at half past seven, made the coffee herself, and brought up with it the nearest thing to the morning rolls of the palazzo barberini which oxford could provide--with a copy of _the times_ specially ordered for lady constance. the household itself subsisted on a copy of the _morning post_, religiously reserved to mrs. hooper after dr. hooper had glanced through it--he, of course, saw _the times_ at the union. but connie regarded a newspaper at breakfast as a necessary part of life. after her coffee, accordingly, she read _the times_, and smoked a cigarette, proceedings which were a daily source of wonder to nora and reprobation in the minds of mrs. hooper and alice. then she generally wrote her letters, and was downstairs after all by half past ten, dressed and ready for the day. mrs. hooper declared to dr. ewen that she would be ashamed for any of their oxford friends to know that a niece of his kept such hours, and that it was a shocking example for the servants. but the maids took it with smiles, and were always ready to run up and down stairs for lady connie; while as for oxford, the invitations which had descended upon the hooper family, even during the few days since connie's arrival, had given aunt ellen some feverish pleasure, but perhaps more annoyance. so far from ewen's "position" being of any advantage to connie, it was connie who seemed likely to bring the hoopers into circles of oxford society where they had till now possessed but the slenderest footing. an invitation to dinner from the provost of winton and mrs. manson, to "dr. and mrs. hooper, miss hooper and lady constance bledlow," to meet an archbishop, had fairly taken mrs. hooper's breath away. but she declaimed to alice none the less in private on the innate snobbishness of people. nora, however, wished to understand. "i can't imagine why you should read _the times_," she said with emphasis, as connie pushed her tray away, and looked for her cigarettes. "what have you to do with politics?" "why, _the times_ is all about people i know!" said connie, opening amused eyes. "look there!" and she pointed to the newspaper lying open amid the general litter of her morning's post, and to a paragraph among the foreign telegrams describing the excitement in rome over a change of ministry. "fall of the italian cabinet. the king sends for the marchese bardinelli." "and there's a letter from elisa bardinelli, telling me all about it!" she tossed some closely-written sheets to nora, who took them up doubtfully. "it is in italian!" she said, as though she resented the fact. "well, of course! did you think it would be in russian? you really ought to learn italian, nora. shall i teach you?" "well--it might be useful for my literature," said nora slowly. "there are all those fellows chaucer borrowed from--and then shakespeare. i wouldn't mind." "thank you!" said connie, laughing. "and then look at the french news. that's thrilling! sir wilfrid's going to throw up the embassy and retire. i stayed with them a night in paris on my way through--and they never breathed. but i thought something was up. sir wilfrid's a queer temper. i expect he's had a row with the foreign office. they were years in rome, and of course we knew them awfully well. mamma adored her!" and leaning back with her hands behind her head, connie's sparkling look subsided for a moment into a dreamy sweetness. "i suppose you think oxford a duck-pond after all that!" said nora pugnaciously. constance laughed. "why, it's new. it's experience. it's all to the good." "oh, you needn't suppose i am apologising for oxford!" cried nora. "i think, of course, it's the most interesting place in the world. it's ideas that matter, and ideas come from the universities!" and the child-student of seventeen drew herself up proudly, as though she bore the honour of all _academie_ on her sturdy shoulders. constance went into a fit of laughter. "and i think they come from the people who do things, and not only from the people who read and write about them when they're done. but goodness--what does it matter where they come from? go away, nora, and let me dress!" "there are several things i want to know," said nora deliberately, not budging. "where did you get to know mr. falloden?" the colour ran up inconveniently in connie's cheeks. "i told you," she said impatiently. "no!--i suppose you weren't there. i met him on the riviera. he came out for the christmas holidays. he was in the villa next to us, and we saw him every day." "how you must have hated him!" said nora, with energy, her hands round her knees, her dark brows frowning. constance laughed again, but rather angrily. "why should i hate him, please? he's extraordinarily clever--" "yes, but such a snob!" said nora, setting her white teeth. connie sprang up in bed. "nora, really, the way you talk of other people's friends. you should learn--indeed, you should--not to say rude and provoking things!" "why should it provoke you? i'm certain you don't care for him--you can't!" cried nora. "he's the most hectoring, overbearing creature! the way he took possession of you the other day at the boats! of course he didn't care, if he made everybody talk about you!" constance turned a little white. "why should anybody talk?" she said coldly. "but really, nora, i must turn you out. i shall ring for annette." she raised herself in bed. "no, no!" nora caught her hand as it stretched out towards the bell. "oh, connie, you shall not fall in love with mr. falloden! i should go mad if you did." "you are mad already," said constance, half laughing, half furious. "i tell you mr. falloden is a friend of mine--as other people are. he is very good company, and i won't have him abused--for nothing. his manners are abominable. i have told him so dozens of times. all the same, he amuses me--and interests me--and you are not to talk about him, nora, if you can't talk civilly." and looking rather formidably great-ladyish, constance threw severe glances at her cousin. nora stood up, first on one foot, then on the other. she was bursting with things to say, and could not find words to say them in. at last she broke out-- "i'm not abusing him for nothing! if you only knew the horrid, rude things--mean things too--at dances and parties--he does to some of the girls i know here; just because they're not swells and not rich, and he doesn't care what they think about him. that's what i call a snob--judging people by whether they're rich and important--by whether it's worth while to know them. hateful!" "you foolish child!" cried connie. "he's so rich and important himself, what can it matter to him? you talk as though he were a hanger-on--as though he had anything to gain by making up to people. you are absurd!" "oh, no--i know he's not like herbert pryce," said nora, panting, but undaunted. "there, that was disgusting of me!--don't remember that i ever said that, connie!--i know mr. falloden needn't be a snob, because he's got everything that snobs want--and he's clever besides. but it is snobbish all the same to be so proud and stand-off, to like to make other people feel small and miserable, just that you may feel big." "go away!" said constance, and taking up one of her pillows, she threw it neatly at nora, who dodged it with equal skill. nora retreated to the other side of the door, then quickly put her head through again. "connie!--don't!" "go away!" repeated connie, smiling, but determined. nora looked at her appealingly, then shut her lips firmly, turned and went away. connie spent a few minutes in meditation. she resented the kind of quasi-guardianship that this clever _backfisch_ assumed towards her, though she knew it meant that nora had fallen in love with her. but it was inconvenient to be so fallen in love with--if it was to mean interference with her private affairs. "as if i couldn't protect myself!" the mere thought of douglas falloden was agitating enough, without the consciousness that a pair of hostile eyes, so close to her, were on the watch. she sprang up, and went through her dressing, thinking all the time. "what do i really feel about him? i am going to ride with him on monday--without telling anybody; i vowed i would never put myself in his power again. and i am deliberately doing it. i am in my guardian's house, and i am treating uncle ewen vilely." and why?--why these lapses from good manners and good feeling? was she after all in love with him? if he asked her to marry him again, as he had asked her to marry him before, would she now say yes, instead of no? not at all! she was further--she declared--from saying yes now, than she had been under his first vehement attack. and yet she was quite determined to ride with him. the thought of their rides in the radiant christmas sunshine at cannes came back upon her with a rush. they had been one continuous excitement, simply because it was falloden who rode beside her--falloden, who after their merry dismounted lunch under the pines, had swung her to her saddle again--her little foot in his strong hand--so easily and powerfully. it was falloden who, when she and two or three others of the party found themselves by mistake on a dangerous bridle-path, on the very edge of a steep ravine in the esterels, and her horse had become suddenly restive, had thrown himself off his own mount, and passing between her horse and the precipice, where any sudden movement of the frightened beast would have sent him to his death, had seized the bridle and led her into safety. and yet all the time, she had disliked him almost as much as she had been drawn to him. none of the many signs of his autocratic and imperious temper had escaped her, and the pride in her had clashed against the pride in him. to flirt with him was one thing. the cloud of grief and illness, which had fallen so heavily on her youth, was just lifting under the natural influences of time at the moment when she and falloden first came across each other. it was a moment for her of strong reaction, of a welling-up and welling-back of life, after a kind of suspension. the strong young, fellow, with his good looks, his masterful ways, and his ability--in spite of the barely disguised audacity which seemed inseparable from the homage it pleased him to pay to women--had made a deep and thrilling impression upon her youth and sex. and yet she had never hesitated when he had asked her to marry him. ride with him--laugh with him--quarrel with him, yes!--marry him, no! something very deep in her recoiled. she refused him, and then had lain awake most of the night thinking of her mother and feeling ecstatically sure, while the tears came raining, that the dear ghost approved that part of the business at least, if no other. and how could there be any compunction about it? douglas falloden, with his egotism, his pride in himself, his family, his wits, his boundless confidence in his own brilliant future, was surely fair game. such men do not break their hearts for love. she had refused his request that he might write to her without a qualm; and mostly because she imagined so vividly what would have been his look of triumph had she granted it. then she had spent the rest of the winter and early spring in thinking about him. and now she was going to do this reckless thing, out of sheer wilfulness, sheer thirst for adventure. she had always been a spoilt child, brought up with boundless indulgence, and accustomed to all the excitements of life. it looked as though douglas falloden were to be her excitement in oxford. girls like the two miss mansons might take possession of him in public, so long as she commanded those undiscovered rides and talks which revealed the real man. at the same time, he should never be able to feel secure that she would do his bidding, or keep appointments. as soon as lady laura's civil note arrived, she was determined to refuse it. he had counted on her coming; therefore she would not go. her first move had been a deliberate check; her second should be a concession. in any case she would keep the upper hand. nevertheless there was an inner voice which mocked, through all the patting and curling and rolling applied by annette's skilled hands to her mistress's brown hair. had not falloden himself arranged this whole adventure ahead?--found her a horse and groom, while she was still in the stage of thinking about them, and settled the place of rendezvous? she could not deny it; but her obstinate confidence in her own powers and will was not thereby in the least affected. she was going because it amused her to go; not because he prescribed it. the following day, saturday, witnessed an unexpected stream of callers on mrs. hooper. she was supposed to be at home on saturday afternoons to undergraduates; but the undergraduates who came were few and shy. they called out of respect for the reader, whose lectures they attended and admired. but they seldom came a second time; for although alice had her following of young men, it was more amusing to meet her anywhere else than under the eyes of her small, peevish mother, who seemed to be able to talk of nothing else than ailments and tabloids, and whether the bath or the buxton waters were the better for her own kind of rheumatism. on this afternoon, however, the hoopers' little drawing-room and the lawn outside were crowded with folk. alexander sorell arrived early, and found constance in a white dress strolling up and down the lawn under a scarlet parasol and surrounded by a group of men with whom she had made acquaintance on the christ church barge. she received him with a pleasure, an effusion, which made a modest man blush. "this is nice of you!--i wondered whether you'd come!" "i thought you'd seen too much of me this week already!" he said, smiling--"but i wanted to arrange with you when i might take you to call on the master of beaumont. to-morrow?" "i shall be plucked, you'll see! you'll be ashamed of me." "i'll take my chance. to-morrow then, at four o'clock before chapel?" constance nodded--"delighted!"--and was then torn from him by her uncle, who had fresh comers to introduce to her. but sorell was quite content to watch her from a distance, or to sit talking in a corner with nora, whom he regarded as a child,--"a jolly, clever, little thing!"--while his mind was full of constance. the mere sight of her--the slim willowy creature, with her distinguished head and her beautiful eyes--revived in him the memory of some of his happiest and most sacred hours. it was her mother who had produced upon his own early maturity one of those critical impressions, for good or evil, which men so sensitive and finely strung owe to women. the tenderness, the sympathy, the womanly insight of ella risborough had drawn him out of one of those fits of bitter despondency which are so apt to beset the scholar just emerging, strained and temporarily injured, from the first contests of life. he had done brilliantly at oxford--more than brilliantly--and he had paid for overwork by a long break-down. after getting his fellowship he had been ordered abroad for rest and travel. there was nobody to help him, nobody to think for him. his father and mother were dead; and of near relations he had only a brother, established in business at liverpool, with whom he had little or nothing in common. at rome he had fallen in with the risboroughs, and had wandered with them during a whole spring through enchanted land of sicily, where it gradually became bearable again to think of the too-many things he knew, and to apply them to his own pleasure and that of his companions. ella risborough was then forty-two, seventeen years older than himself, and her only daughter was a child of sixteen. he had loved them all--father, mother, and child--with the adoring gratitude of one physically and morally orphaned, to whom a new home and family has been temporarily given. for ella and her husband had taken a warm affection to the refined and modest fellow, and could not do enough for him. his fellowship, and some small savings, gave him all the money he wanted, but he was starved of everything else that man's kindred can generally provide--sympathy, and understanding without words, and the little gaieties and kindnesses of every day. these the risboroughs offered him without stint, and rejoiced to see him taking hold on life again under the sunshine they made for him. after six months he was quite restored to health, and he went back to oxford to devote himself to his college work. twice afterwards he had gone to rome on short visits to see the risboroughs. then had come the crash of lady risborough's sudden death followed by that of her husband. the bitterness of sorell's grief was increased by the fact that he saw no means, at that time, of continuing his friendship with their orphan child. indeed his fastidious and scrupulous temperament forbade him any claim of the kind. he shrank from being misunderstood. constance, in the hands of colonel king and his wife, was well cared for, and the shrewd and rather suspicious soldier would certainly have looked askance on the devotion of a man around thirty, without fortune or family, to a creature so attractive and so desirable as constance bledlow. so he had held aloof, and as constance resentfully remembered she had received but two letters from him since her father's death. ewen hooper, with whom he had an academic rather than a social acquaintance, had kept him generally informed about her, and he knew that she was expected in oxford. but again he did not mean to put himself forward, or to remind her unnecessarily of his friendship with her parents. at the vice-chancellor's party, indeed, an old habit of looking after her had seized him again, and he had not been able to resist it. but it was her long disappearance with falloden, her heightened colour, and preoccupied manner when they parted at the college gate, together with the incident at the boat-races of which he had been a witness, which had suddenly developed a new and fighting resolve in him. if there was one type in oxford he feared and detested more than another it was the falloden type. to him, a hellene in temper and soul--if to be a hellene means gentleness, reasonableness, lucidity, the absence of all selfish pretensions--men like falloden were the true barbarians of the day, and the more able the more barbarian. thus, against his own will and foresight, he was on the way to become a frequenter of the hoopers' house. he had called on wednesday, taken the whole party to the boats on thursday, and given them supper afterwards in his rooms. they had all met again at the boats on friday, and here he was on saturday, that he might make plans with constance for sunday and for several other days ahead. he was well aware that things could not go on at that pace; but he was determined to grasp the situation, and gauge the girl's character, if he could. [illustration: the tea-party at mrs. hooper's] he saw plainly that her presence at the hoopers was going to transform the household in various unexpected ways. on this saturday afternoon mrs. hooper's stock of teacups entirely ran out; so did her garden chairs. mrs. manson called--and lord meyrick, under the wing of a young fellow of all souls, smooth-faced and slim, one of the "mighty men" of the day, just taking wing for the bar and parliament. falloden, he understood, had put in an appearance earlier in the afternoon; herbert pryce, and bobbie vernon of magdalen, a blue of the first eminence, skirmished round and round the newcomer, taking possession of her when they could. mrs. hooper, under the influence of so much social success, showed a red and flustered countenance, and her lace cap went awry. alice helped her mother in the distribution of tea, but was curiously silent and self-effaced. it was dismally true that the men who usually paid attention to her were now entirely occupied with constance. bobbie vernon, who was artistic, was holding an ardent though intermittent discussion with constance on the merits of old pictures and new. pryce occasionally took part in it, but only, as sorell soon perceived, for the sake of diverting a few of connie's looks and gestures, a sally or a smile, now and then to himself. in the middle of it she turned abruptly towards sorell. her eyes beckoned, and he carried her off to the further end of the garden, where they were momentarily alone. there she fell upon him. "why did you never write to me all last winter?" he could not help a slight flush. "you had so many friends without me," he said, stammeringly, at last. "one hasn't so many old friends." the voice was reproachful. "i thought you must be offended with me." "how could i be!" "and you call me lady constance," she went on indignantly. "when did you ever do such a thing in rome, or when we were travelling?" his look betrayed his feeling. "ah, but you were a little girl then, and now--" "now"--she said impatiently--"i am just constance bledlow, as i was then--to you. but i don't give away my christian name to everybody. i don't like, for instance, being forced to give it to aunt ellen!" and she threw a half-laughing, half-imperious glance towards mrs. hooper in the distance. sorell smiled. "i hope you're going to be happy here!" he said earnestly. "i shall be happy enough--if i don't quarrel with aunt ellen!" "don't quarrel with anybody! call me in, before you do. and do make friends with your uncle. he is delightful." "yes, but far too busy for the likes of me. oh, i dare say i shall keep out of mischief." but he thought he detected in her tone a restlessness, a forlornness, which pained him. "why not take up some study--some occupation? learn something--go in for honours!" he said, laughing. she laughed too, but with a very decided shake of the head. then she turned upon him suddenly. "but there is something i should like to learn! papa began to teach me. i should like to learn greek." "bravo!" he said, with a throb of pleasure. "and take me for a teacher!" "do you really mean it?" "entirely." they strolled on, arranging times and seasons, constance throwing herself into the scheme with a joyous and childlike zest. "mind you--i shall make you work!" he said firmly. "rather! may nora come too?--if she wishes? i like nora!" "does that mean--" "only that alice doesn't like me!" she said with a frank smile. "but i agree--my uncle is a dear." "and i hear you are going to ride?" "yes. mr. falloden has found me a horse and groom." "when did you come to know mr. falloden? i don't remember anybody of that name at the barberini." she explained carelessly. "you are going out alone?" "in general. sometimes, no doubt, i shall find a friend. i must ride!"--she shook her shoulders impatiently--"else i shall suffocate in this place. it's beautiful--oxford!--but i don't understand it--it's not my friend yet. you remember that mare of mine in rome--angelica! i want a good gallop--god and the grass!" she laughed and stretched her long and slender arms, clasping her hands above her head. he realised in her, with a disagreeable surprise, the note that was so unlike her mother--the note of recklessness, of vehement will. it was really ill-luck that some one else than douglas falloden could not have been found to look after her riding. * * * * * "i suppose you will be 'doing' the eights all next week?" said herbert pryce to the eldest miss hooper. alice coldly replied that she supposed it was necessary to take connie to all the festivities. "what!--such a _blasé_ young woman! she seems to have been everywhere and seen everything already. she will be able to give you and miss nora all sorts of hints," said the mathematical tutor, with a touch of that patronage which was rarely absent from his manner to alice hooper. he was well aware of her interest in him, and flattered by it; but, to do him justice, he had not gone out of his way to encourage it. she had been all very well, with her pretty little french face, before this striking creature, her cousin, appeared on the scene. and now of course she was jealous--that was inevitable. but it was well girls should learn to measure themselves against others--should find their proper place. all the same, he was quite fond of her, the small kittenish thing. an old friend of his, and of the hoopers, had once described her as a girl "with a real talent for flirtation and an engaging penury of mind." pryce thought the description good. she could be really engaging sometimes, when she was happy and amused, and properly dressed. but ever since the appearance of constance bledlow she seemed to have suffered eclipse; to have grown plain and dull. he stayed talking to her, however, a little while, seeing that constance bledlow had gone indoors; and then he departed. alice ran upstairs, locked her door, and stood looking at herself in the glass. she hated her dress, her hat, the way she had done her hair. the image of constance in her white silk hat with its drooping feathers, her delicately embroidered dress and the necklace on her shapely throat, tormented her. she was sick with envy--and with fear. for months she had clung to the belief that herbert pryce would ask her to marry him. and now all expectation of the magic words was beginning to fade from her mind. in one short week, as it seemed to her, she had been utterly eclipsed and thrown aside. bob vernon too, whose fancy for her, as shown in various winter dances, had made her immensely proud, he being then in that momentary limelight which flashes on the blue, as he passes over the oxford scene--vernon had scarcely had a word for her. she never knew that he cared about pictures! and there was connie--knowing everything about pictures!--able to talk about everything! as she had listened to connie's talk, she had felt fairly bewildered. of course it was no credit to connie to be able to rattle off all those names and things. it was because she had lived in italy. and no doubt a great deal of it was showing off. all the same, poor miserable alice felt a bitter envy of connie's opportunities. chapter vi "my brother will be here directly. he wants to show you his special books," said miss wenlock shyly. the master's sister was a small and withered lady, who had been something of a beauty, and was now the pink of gentle and middle-aged decorum. she was one of those women it is so easy to ignore till you live with them. then you perceive that in their relations to their own world, the world they make and govern, they are of the stuff which holds a country together, without which a country can not exist. she might have come out of a dutch picture--a terburg or a metsu--so exquisite was she in every detail--her small, white head, her regular features, the lace coif tied under her chin, the ruffles at her wrist, the black brocade gown, which never altered in its fashion and which she herself cut out, year after year, for her maid to make,--the chatelaine of old normandy silver, given her by her brother years before, which hung at her waist. opposite her sat a very different person, yet of a type no less profitable to this mixed life of ours. mrs. mulholland was the widow of a former scientific professor, of great fame in oxford for his wit and liberalism. whenever there was a contest on between science and clericalism in the good old fighting days, mulholland's ample figure might have been seen swaying along the road from the parks to convocation, his short-sighted eyes blinking at every one he passed, his fair hair and beard streaming in the wind, a flag of battle to his own side, and an omen of defeat to the enemy. his _mots_ still circulated, and something of his gift for them had remained with the formidable woman who now represented him. at a time when short dresses for women were coming in universally, she always wore hers long and ample, though they were looped up by various economical and thrifty devices; on the top of the dress--which might have covered a crinoline, but didn't--a shawl, long after every one else had ceased to wear shawls; and above the shawl a hat, of the large mushroom type and indecipherable age. and in the midst of this antique and generally untidy gear, the youngest and liveliest face imaginable, under snow-white hair: black eyes full of irish fun, a pugnacious and humorous mouth, and the general look of one so steeped in the rich, earthy stuff of life that she might have stepped out of a novel of fielding's or a page of "lavengro." when constance entered, mrs. mulholland turned round suddenly to look at her. it was a glance full of good will, but penetrating also, and critical. it was as though the person from whom it came had more than a mere stranger's interest in the tall young lady in white, now advancing towards miss wenlock. but she gave no immediate sign of it. she and miss wenlock had been discussing an oxford acquaintance, the newly-married wife of one of the high officials of the university. miss wenlock, always amiable, had discreetly pronounced her "charming." "oh, so dreadfully charming!" said mrs. mulholland with a shrug, "and so sentimental that she hardens every heart. mine becomes stone when i talk to her. she cried when i went to tea with her--a wedding visit if you please! i think it was because one of the kangaroos at blenheim had just died in childbirth. i told her it was a mercy, considering that any of them would hug us to death if they got a chance. are you a sentimentalist, lady constance?" mrs. mulholland turned gaily to the girl beside her, but still with the same touch of something coolly observant in her manner. constance laughed. "i never can cry when i ought to," she said lightly. "then you should go to tea with mrs. crabbett. she could train anybody to cry--in time. she cultivates with care, and waters with tears, every sorrow that blows! most of us run away from our troubles, don't we?" constance again smiled assent. but suddenly her face stiffened. it was like a flower closing, or a light blown out. mrs. mulholland thought--"she has lost a father and a mother within a year, and i have reminded her. i am a cruel, clumsy wretch." and thenceforward she roared so gently that miss wenlock, who never said a malicious thing herself, and was therefore entirely dependent on sarah mulholland's tongue for the salt of life, felt herself cheated of her usual sunday entertainment. for there were few sundays in term-time when mrs. mulholland did not "drop in" for tea and talk at beaumont before going on to the cathedral service. but under the gentleness, constance opened again, and expanded. mrs. mulholland seemed to watch her with increasing kindness. at last, she said abruptly-- "i have already heard of you from two charming young men." constance opened a pair of conscious eyes. it was as though she were always expecting to hear falloden's name, and protecting herself against the shock of it. but the mistake was soon evident. "otto radowitz told me you had been so kind to him! he is an enthusiastic boy, and a great friend of mine. he deals always in superlatives. that is so refreshing here in oxford where we are all so clever that we are deadly afraid of each other, and everybody talks drab. and his music is divine! i hear they talk of him in paris as another chopin. he passed his first degree examination the other day magnificently! come and hear him some evening at my house. jim meyrick, too, has told me all about you. his mother is a cousin of mine, and he condescends occasionally to come and see me. he is, i understand, a 'blood.' all i know is that he would be a nice youth, if he had a little more will of his own, and had nicer friends!" the small black eyes under the white hair flamed. constance started. miss wenlock put up a soothing hand-- "dear sarah, are you thinking of any one?" "of course i am!" said mrs. mulholland firmly. "there is a young gentleman at marmion who thinks the world belongs to him. oh, you know mr. falloden, grace! he got the newdigate last year, and the greek verse the other day. he got the ireland, and he's going to get a first. he might have been in the eleven, if he'd kept his temper, and they say he's going to be a magnificent tennis player. and a lot of other tiresome distinctions. i believe he speaks at the union, and speaks well--bad luck to him!" constance laughed, fidgeted, and at last said, rather defiantly-- "it's sometimes a merit to be disliked, isn't it? it means that you're not exactly like other people. aren't we all turned out by the gross!" mrs. mulholland looked amused. "ah, but you see i know something about this young man at home. his mother doesn't count. she has her younger children, and they make her happy. and of course she is absurdly proud of douglas. but the father and this son douglas are of the same stuff. they have a deal more brains and education than their forbears ever wanted; but still, in soul, they remain our feudal lords and superiors, who have a right to the services of those beneath them. and everybody is beneath them--especially women; and foreigners--and artists--and people who don't shoot or hunt. ask their neighbours--ask their cottagers. whenever the revolution comes, their heads will be the first to go! at the same time they know--the clever ones--that they can't keep their place except by borrowing the weapons of the class they really fear--the professional class--the writers and thinkers--the lawyers and journalists. and so they take some trouble to sharpen their own brains. and the cleverer they are, the more tyrannous they are. and that, if you please, is mr. douglas falloden!" "i wonder why you are so angry with him, my dear sarah," said miss wenlock mildly. "because he has been bullying my nice boy, radowitz!" said mrs. mulholland vehemently. "i hear there has been a disgraceful amount of ragging in marmion lately, and that douglas falloden--can you conceive it?--a man in his last term, whom the university imagines itself to be turning out as an educated specimen!--is one of the ring-leaders--the ring-leader. it appears that otto wears a frilled dress shirt--why shouldn't he?--that, having been brought up in paris till he was nineteen, he sometimes tucks his napkin under his chin--that he uses french words when he needn't--that he dances like a frenchman--that he recites french poetry actually of his own making--that he plays too well for a gentleman--that he doesn't respect the customs of the college, et cetera. there is a sacred corner of the junior common room, where no freshman is expected to sit after hall. otto sat in it--quite innocently--knowing nothing--and, instead of apologising, made fun of jim meyrick and douglas falloden who turned him out. then afterwards he composed a musical skit on 'the bloods,' which delighted every one in college, who wasn't a 'blood.' and now there is open war between him and them. otto doesn't talk of it. i hear of it from other people. but he looks excited and pale--he is a very delicate creature!--and we, who are fond of him, live in dread of some violence. i never can understand why the dons are so indulgent to ragging. it is nothing but a continuation of school bullying. it ought to be put down with the strongest possible hand." miss wenlock had listened in tremulous sympathy, nodding from time to time. constance sat silent and rather pale--looting down. but her mind was angry. she said to herself that nobody ought to attack absent persons who can't defend themselves,--at least so violently. and as mrs. mulholland seemed to wait for some remark from her, she said at last, with a touch of impatience: "i don't think mr. radowitz minds much. he came to us--to my uncle's--to play last night. he was as gay as possible." "radowitz would make jokes with the hangman!" said mrs. mulholland. "ah, well, i think you know douglas falloden"--the tone was just lightly touched with significance--"and if you can lecture him--do!" then she abruptly changed her subject: "i suppose you have scarcely yet made acquaintance with your two aunts who live quite close to the fallodens in yorkshire?" constance looked up in astonishment. "do you know them?" "oh, quite well!" the strong wrinkled face flashed into laughter. but suddenly the speaker checked herself, and laid a worn hand gently on constance's knee--"you won't mind if i tell you things?--you won't think me an impertinent old woman? i knew your father"--was there just an imperceptible pause on the words?--"when he was quite a boy; and my people were small squires under the shelter of the risboroughs before your father sold the property and settled abroad. i was brought up with all your people--your aunt marcia, and your aunt winifred, and all the rest of them. i saw your mother once in rome--and loved her, like everybody else. but--as probably you know--your aunt winifred--who was keeping house for your father--gathered up her silly skirts, and departed when your father announced his engagement. then she and your aunt marcia settled together in an old prim georgian house, about five miles from the fallodens; and there they have been ever since. and now they are tremendously excited about you!" "about me?" said constance, astonished. "i don't know them. they never write to me. they never wrote to father!" mrs. mulholland smiled. "all the same you will have a letter from them soon. and of course you remember your father's married sister, lady langmoor?" "no, i never even saw her. but she did sometimes write to father." "yes, she was not quite such a fool as the others. well, she will certainly descend on you. she'll want you for some balls--for a drawing-room--and that kind of thing. i warn you!" the girl's face showed her restive. "why should she want me?--when she never wanted me before--or any of us?" "ah, that's her affair! but it is your other aunts who delight me. your aunt marcia, when i first knew her, was in an ascetic phase. people called it miserliness--but it wasn't; it was only a moral hatred of waste--in anything. we envied her abominably, when i was a girl in my early teens, much bothered with dressing, because she had invented a garment--the only one of any kind that she wore under her dress. she called it a 'unipantaloonicoat'--you can imagine why! it included stockings. it was thin in summer and thick in winter. there was only one putting on--pouf!--and then the dress. i thought it a splendid idea, but my mother wouldn't let me copy it. your aunt winifred had just the opposite mania--of piling on clothes--because she said there were 'always draughts.' if one petticoat fastened at the back, there must be another over that which fastened at the front--and another at the side--and so on, _ad infinitum_. but then, alack!--they suddenly dropped all their absurdities, and became quite ordinary people. aunt winifred took to religion; she befriends all the clergy for miles round. she is the mother of mother church. and aunt marcia, after having starved herself of clothes for years and collected nothing more agreeable than snails, now wears silks and satins, and gossips and goes out to tea, and collects blue china like anybody else. i connect it with the advent of a certain general who after all went off solitary to malta, and died there. poor marcia! but you will certainly have to go and stay there." "i don't know!" said constance, her delicate mouth setting rather stiffly. "ah, well--they are getting old!" mrs. mulholland's tone had softened again, and when it softened there was a wonderful kindness in it. a door opened suddenly. the master came in, followed by alexander sorell. "my dear edward!" said miss wenlock, "how late you are!" "i was caught by a bore, dear, after chapel. horace couldn't get rid of his, and i couldn't get rid of mine. but now all is well. how do you do, lady constance? have you had enough tea, and will you come and see my books?" he carried her off, connie extremely nervous, and wondering into what bogs she was about to flounder. but she was a scholar's daughter, and she had lived with books. she would have scorned to pretend, and her pose, if she had one, was a pose of ignorance--she claimed less than she might. but the master soon discovered that she had many of her father's tastes, that she knew something of archæology--he bore it even when she shyly quoted lanciani--that she read latin, and was apparently passionately fond of some kinds of poetry. and all the time she pleased his tired eyes by her youth and freshness, and when as she grew at ease with him, and began to chatter to him about rome, and how the learned there love one another, the master's startling, discordant laugh rang out repeatedly. the three in the other room heard it. "she is amusing him," said miss wenlock, looking rather bewildered. "they are generally so afraid of him." the master put his head into the drawing-room. "i am taking lady constance into the garden, my dear. will you three follow when you like?" he took her through the old house, with the dim faces of former masters and college worthies shining softly on its panelled walls, in the golden lights from the level sun outside, and presently they emerged upon the garden which lay like an emerald encased on three sides by surfaces of silver-grey stone, and overlooked by a delicate classical tower designed by the genius of christopher wren. over one-half of the garden lay an exquisite shadow; the other was in vivid light. the air seemed to be full of bells--a murmurous voice--the voice of oxford; as though the dead generations were perpetually whispering to the living--"we who built these walls, and laid this turf for you--we, who are dead, call to you who are living--carry on our task, continue our march: "on to the bound of the waste-- on to the city of god!" a silence fell upon constance as she walked beside the master. she was thinking involuntarily of that absent word dropped by her uncle--"_oxford is a place of training_"--and there was a passionate and troubled revolt in her. other ghostly wills seemed to be threatening her--wills that meant nothing to her. no!--her own will should shape her own life! as against the austere appeal that comes from the inner heart of oxford, the young and restless blood in her sang defiance. "i will ride with him to-morrow--i will--i will!" but the master merely thought that she was feeling the perennial spell of the oxford beauty. "you are going to like oxford, i hope?" "yes--" said constance, a little reluctantly. "oh, of course i shall like it. but it oppresses me--rather." "i know!" he said eagerly--always trying to place himself in contact with the young mind and life, always seeking something from them in which he was constantly disappointed. "yes, we all feel that! we who are alive must always fight the past, though we owe it all we have. oxford has been to me often a witch--a dangerous--almost an evil witch. i seemed to see her--benumbing the young forces of the present. and the scientific and practical men, who would like to scrap her, have sometimes seemed to me right. and then one changes--one changes!" his voice dropped. all that was slightly grotesque in his outer man, the broad flat head, the red hair, the sharp wedge-like chin, disappeared for constance in the single impression of his eyes--pale blue, intensely melancholy, and most human. "take up some occupation--some study--" he said to her gently. "you won't be long here; but still, ask us for what we can give. in oxford one must learn something--or teach something. if not, life here goes sour." constance repeated sorell's promise to teach her greek. "excellent!" said the master. "you will be envied. sorell is a capital fellow! and one of the ablest of our younger scholars--though of course"--the speaker drew himself up with a slight acerbity--"he and i belong to different schools of criticism. he was devoted to your mother." constance assented dumbly. "and shows already"--thought the master--"some dangerous signs of being devoted to you. poor wretch!" aloud he said--"ah, here they come. i must get some more chairs." the drawing-room party joined them, and the gathering lasted a little longer. sorell walked up and down with constance. she liked him increasingly--could not help liking him. and apart from his personal charm, he recalled all sorts of pleasant things and touching memories to her. but he was almost oppressively refined and scrupulous and high-minded. "he is too perfect!" she thought rebelliously. "one can't be as good as that. it isn't allowed." as to mrs. mulholland, constance felt herself taken possession of--mothered--by that lady. she could not understand why, but though rather puzzled and bewildered, she did not resist. there was something, indeed, in the generous dark eyes that every now and then touched the girl's feeling intolerably, as though it reminded her of a tenderness she had been long schooling herself to do without. "come and see me, my dear, whenever you like. i have a house in st. giles, and all my husband's books. i do a lot of things--i am a guardian--i work at the schools--the town schools for the town children, et cetera. we all try to save our souls by committees nowadays. but my real business is to talk, and make other people talk. so i am always at home in the evenings after dinner, and a good many people come. bring nora sometimes. alice doesn't like me. your aunt will let you come--though we don't know each other very well. i am very respectable." the laughing face looked into constance's, which laughed back. "that's all right!" said mrs. mulholland, as though some confidences had been exchanged between them. "you might find me useful. consider me a friend of the family. i make rather a good umbrella-stand. people can lean against me if they like. i hold firm. good-bye. that's the cathedral bell." but constance and sorell, followed discreetly by annette, departed first. mrs. mulholland stayed for a final word to the master, before obeying the silver voice from st. frideswide's tower. "to think of that girl being handed over to ellen hooper, just when all her love affairs will be coming on! a woman with the wisdom of a rabbit, and the feelings of a mule! and don't hold your finger up at me, master! you know you can't suffer fools at all--either gladly--or sadly. now let me go, grace!--or i shan't be fit for church." * * * * * "a very pretty creature!" said ewen hooper admiringly--"and you look very well on her, constance." he addressed his niece, who had been just put into her saddle by the neat groom who had brought the horses. mrs. hooper, alice and nora were standing on the steps of the old house. a knot of onlookers had collected on the pavement--mostly errand boys. the passing undergraduates tried not to look curious, and hurried by. constance, in her dark blue riding-habit and a _tricorne_ felt hat which she had been accustomed to wear in the campagna, kept the mare fidgeting and pawing a little that her uncle might inspect both her and her rider, and then waved her hand in farewell. "where are you going, connie?" cried nora. "somewhere out there--beyond the railway," she said vaguely, pointing with her riding-whip. "i shall be back in good time." and she went off followed by joseph, the groom, a man of forty, lean and jockey-like, with a russet and wrinkled countenance which might mean anything or nothing. "a ridiculous hat!" said alice, maliciously. "nobody wears such a hat in england to ride in. think of her appearing like that in the row!" "it becomes her." the voice was nora's, sharp and impatient. "it is theatrical, like everything connie does," said mrs. hooper severely. "i beg that neither of you will copy her." nora walked to the door opening on the back garden, and stood there frowning and smiling unseen. * * * * * meanwhile joseph followed close at connie's side, directing her, till they passed through various crowded streets, and left the railway behind. then trotting under a sunny sky, on a broad vacant road, they made for a line of hills in the middle distance. the country was early june at its best. the river meadows blazed with buttercups; the river itself, when constance occasionally caught a glimpse of its windings, lay intensely blue under a wide azure sky, magnificently arched on a great cornice built of successive strata of white and purple cloud, which held the horizon. over the lathom woods the cloud-line rose and fell in curves that took the line of the hill. the woods themselves lay in a haze of heat, the sunlight on the rounded crests of the trees, and the shadows cast by the westerly sun, all fused within the one shimmering veil of blue. the air was fresh and life-giving. constance felt herself in love with life and the wide oxford scene. the physical exercise delighted her, and the breathless sense of adventure. but it was disagreeable to reflect, as she must do occasionally, that the sphinx-like groom knew perfectly well that she was going to the lathom woods, that he had the key of the nearest gate in his pocket, that he would be a witness of her meeting with falloden, whatever they did with him afterwards, and that falloden had in all probability paid him largely to hold his tongue. all that side of it was odious--degrading. but the thought of the green rides, and the man waiting for her, set all the blood in her wild veins dancing. yet there was little or nothing in her feeling of a girl's yearning for a lover. she wanted to see falloden--to talk with him and dispute with him. she could not be content for long without seeing him. he excited her--provoked her--haunted her. and to feel her power over him was delightful, if it had not been spoilt by a kind of recurrent fear--a panic fear of his power over her. what did she know of him after all? she was quite aware that her friends, the kings, had made some enquiries at cannes before allowing her to see so much of him as she had done during his stay with the rich and hospitable jaroslavs. she believed colonel king had not liked him personally. but douglas falloden belonged to one of the oldest english families, settled on large estates in yorkshire, with distinguished records in all the great services; he was heir presumptive to a marquisate, so long as his uncle, lord dagnall, now past seventy, did not take it into his head to marry; and there was his brilliant career at oxford, his good looks and all the rest of it. constance had a strong dash of the worldling in her mixed character. she had been brought up with italian girl friends of the noble class, in whom the practical instincts of a practical race were closely interwoven with what the englishman thinks of as italian "romance" or "passion." she had discussed dowries and settlements since she was fifteen; and took the current values of wealth and birth for granted. she was quite aware of her own advantages, and was not at all minded to throw them away. a brilliant marriage was, perhaps, at the back of her mind, as it is at the back of the minds of so many beautiful creatures who look and breathe poetry, while they are aware, within a few pounds, of what can be done in london on five thousand--or ten thousand--a year. she inevitably thought of herself as quite different from the girls of poor or middle-class families, who must earn their living--nora, for instance. and yet there was really a gulf between her and the ordinary worldling. it consisted in little else than a double dose of personality--a richer supply of nerve and emotion. she could not imagine life without money, because she had always lived with rich people. but money was the mere substratum; what really mattered was the excitement of loving, and being loved. she had adored her parents with an absorbing affection. then, as she grew up, everywhere in her roman life, among her girl friends, or the handsome youths she remembered riding in the villa borghese gymkhana, she began to be aware of passion and sex; she caught the hints of them, as it were of a lightning playing through the web of life, flashing, and then gone--illuminating or destroying. her mind was full of love stories. at twenty she had been the confidante of many, both from her married and her unmarried friends. it was all, so far, a great mystery to her. but there was in her a thrilled expectation. not of a love, tranquil and serene, such as shone on her parents' lives, but of something overwhelming and tempestuous; into which she might fling her life as one flings a flower into the current of niagara. it was the suggestion of such a possibility that had drawn her first to douglas falloden. for three golden days she had imagined herself blissfully in love with him. then had come disillusion and repulsion. what was violent and imperious in him had struck on what was violent and imperious in her. she had begun to hold him off--to resist him. and that resistance had been more exciting even than the docility of the first phase. it had ended in his proposal, the snatched kiss, and a breach. and now, she had little idea of what would happen; and would say to herself, recklessly, that she did not care. only she must see him--must go on exploring him. and as for allowing her intimacy with him to develop in any ordinary way--under the eyes of the hoopers--or of oxford--it was not to be thought of. rather than be tamely handed over to him in a commonplace wooing, she would have broken off all connection with him; and that she had not the strength to do. * * * * * "here is the gate, my lady." the man produced a key from his pocket and got down to open it. constance passed into a green world. three "drives" converged in front of her, moss-carpeted, and close-roofed by oak-wood in its first rich leaf. after the hot sun on the straight and shadeless road outside, these cool avenues stretching away into a forest infinity, seemed to beckon a visitant towards some distant elysian scene--some glade haunted of pan. constance looked down them eagerly. which was she to take?--suddenly, far down the right hand drive, a horseman--coming into view. he perceived her, gave a touch to his horse, and was quickly beside her. both were conscious of the groom, who had reined in a few yards behind, and sat impassive. falloden saluted her joyously. he rode a handsome irish horse, nearly black, with a white mark on its forehead; a nervous and spirited creature, which its rider handled with the ease of one trained from his childhood to the hunting field. his riding dress, with its knee-breeches and leggings pleased the feminine eye; so did his strong curly head as he bared it, and the animation of his look. "this is better, isn't it, than ''ammer, 'ammer, 'ammer on the 'ard 'igh road!' i particularly want to show you the bluebells--they're gorgeous! but they're quite on the other side--a long way off. and then you'll be tired--you'll want tea. i've arranged it." "joseph"--he turned to the groom--"you know the head keeper's cottage?" "yes, sir." "well, go off there and wait. tell the keeper's wife that i shall bring a lady to tea there in about an hour. she knows." joseph turned obediently, took the left hand road, and was soon out of sight. the two riders paced side by side through the green shadows of the wood. constance was flushed--but 'she looked happy and gracious. falloden had not seen her so gracious since oxford had brought them again across each other. they fell at once, for the first time since her arrival, into the easy talk of their early riviera days; and he found himself doing his very best to please her. she asked him questions about his approaching schools; and it amused him, in the case of so quick a pupil, to frame a "chaffing" account of oxford examinations and degrees; to describe the rush of an honour man's first year before the mods' gate is leaped; the loitering and "slacking" of the second year and part of the third; and then the setting of teeth and girding of loins, when a man realises that some of the lost time is gone forever, and that the last struggle is upon him. "what i am doing now is degrading!--getting 'tips' from the tutors--pinning up lists--beastly names and dates--in my rooms--learning hard bits by heart--cribbing and stealing all i can. and i have still some of my first year's work to go through again. i must cut oxford for the last fortnight--and go into retreat." constance expressed her wonder that any one could ever do any work in the summer term-- "you are all so busy lunching each other's sisters and cousins and aunts! it is a great picnic--not a university," she said flippantly. "distracting, i admit--but--" he paused. "but--what?" after a moment, he turned a glowing countenance towards her. "that is not my chief cause of flight!" she professed not to understand. "it is persons distract me--not tea-parties. persons i want to be seeing and talking to--persons i can not keep myself away from." he looked straight before him. the horses ambled on together, the reins on their necks. in the distance a cuckoo called from the river meadows, and round the two young figures one might have fancied an attendant escort of birds, as wrens, tits, pippets, fled startled by their approach. constance laughed. the laugh, though very musical, was sarcastic. "i don't see you as a shuttlecock!" "tossed by the winds of fate? you think i can always make myself do what i wish?" "that's how i read you--at present." 'hm--a charming character! everything calculated--nothing spontaneous. that i think is what you mean?" "no. but i doubt your being carried away." he flushed hotly. "lady connie!--" he paused. her colour rushed too. she saw what he was thinking of; she perceived her blunder. "for what else did you castigate me at cannes?" he said, in a low voice. and his black eyes looked passionately into hers. but she recovered herself quickly. "at any rate, you have more will than most people," she said lightly. "aren't you always boasting of it? but you are quite right to go away." "i am not going for a week," he put in quickly. "there will be time for two more rides." she made no reply, and they paced on. suddenly the trees began to thin before them, and a splendid wave of colour swept across an open glade in full sunlight. "marvellous!" cried constance. "oh, stop a moment!" they pulled up on the brink of a sea of blue. all around them the bluebells lay glowing in the sunshine. the colour and sparkle of them was a physical delight; and with occasional lingering tufts of primroses among them and the young oak scrub pushing up through the blue in every shade of gold and bronze, they made an enchanted garden of the glade. falloden dismounted, tied up his horse, and gathered a bunch for his companion. "i don't know--ought we?" she said regretfully. "they are not so beautiful when they are torn away. and in a week they will be gone--withered!" she stooped over them, caressing them, as, taking a strap from the pocket of his own saddle, he tied the flowers to her pommel. he looked up impetuously. "only to spring again!--in this same wood--in other woods--for us to see. do you ever think how full the world is of sheer pleasure--small and great?" and his eyes told her plainly what his pleasure was at that moment. something jarred. she drew herself away, though with fluttering pulses. falloden, with a strong effort, checked the tide of impulse in himself. he mounted again, and suggested a gallop, through a long stretch of green road on the further side of the glade. they let their horses go, and the flying hoof-beats woke the very heart of the wood. "that was good!" cried falloden, as they pulled up, drawing in deep draughts of the summer wind. then he looked at her admiringly. "how well you hold yourself! you are a perfect rider!" against her will constance sparkled under his praise. then they turned their horses towards the keeper's cottage, and the sun fell lower in the west. "mr. falloden," said constance presently, "i want you to promise me something." "ask me," he said eagerly. "i want you to give up ragging otto radowitz!" his countenance changed. "who has been talking to you?" "that doesn't matter. it is unworthy of you. give it up." falloden laughed with good humour. "i assure you it does him a world of good!" she argued hotly; astonished, in her young inexperience, that his will could so soon reassert itself against hers; sharply offended, indeed, that after she had given him the boon of this rendezvous, he could hesitate for a moment as to the boon she asked in return--had humbled herself to ask. for had she not often vowed to herself that she would never, never ask the smallest favour of him; while on her side a diet of refusals and rebuffs was the only means to keep him in check? but that diet was now gaily administered to herself. falloden argued with energy that a man who has never been to a public school has got to be "disciplined" at the university; that otto radowitz, being an artist, was specially in need of discipline; that no harm had been done him, or would be done him. but he must be made to understand that certain liberties and impertinences would not be tolerated by the older men. "he never means them!" cried constance. "he doesn't understand. he is a foreigner." "no! he is an englishman here--and must behave as such. don't spoil him, lady connie!" he looked at her imperiously--half smiling, half frowning. "remember!--he is my friend!" "i do remember," he said drily. "i am not likely to forget." constance flushed, and proudly dropped the subject. he saw that he had wounded her, but he quietly accepted it. there was something in the little incident that made her more aware of his overbearing character than ever. "if i married him," she thought, "i should be his slave!" tea had been daintily spread for them under a birch-tree near the keeper's lodge. the keeper's wife served them with smiles and curtsies, and then discreetly disappeared. falloden waited on constance as a squire on his princess; and all round them lay the green encircling rampart of the wood. in the man's every action, there was the homage of one who only keeps silence because the woman he loves imposes it. but constance again felt that recurrent fear creeping over her. she had been a fool--a fool! he escorted her to the gate of the wood where joseph was waiting. "and now for our next merry meeting?" he said, as he got down to tighten her stirrup which had stretched a little. constance hurriedly said she could not promise--there were so many engagements. falloden did not press her. but he held her hand when she gave it him. "are you angry with me?" he said, in a low voice, while his eyes mocked a little. "no--only disappointed!" "isn't that unkind? haven't we had a golden time?" his tone smote her a little. "it was heavenly," she said, "till--" "till i behaved like a brute?" she laughed excitedly, and waved farewell. falloden, smiling, watched her go, standing beside his horse--a siegfried parting from brunhilde. when she and the groom had disappeared, he mounted and rode off towards another exit. "i must be off to-morrow!" he said to himself with decision--"or my schools will go to the dogs!" chapter vii "three more invitations!--since lunch," said mrs. hooper, as she came into the schoolroom, where her elder daughter sat by the window renovating a garden hat. her mother dropped the envelopes on a small table beside alice, and sitting down on the other side of it, she waited for her daughter's comments. alice threw down her work, and hastily opened the notes. she flushed an angry pink as she read them. "i might as well not exist!" she said shortly, as she pushed them away again. for two of the notes requested the pleasure of dr. and mrs. hooper's and lady constance bledlow's company at dinner, and the third, from a very great lady, begged "dear mrs. hooper" to bring lady constance to a small party in wolsey college gardens, to meet the chancellor of the university, a famous tory peer, who was coming down to a public, meeting. in none of the three was there any mention of the elder miss hooper. mrs. hooper looked worried. it was to her credit that her maternal feeling, which was her only passion, was more irritated by this sudden stream of invitations than her vanity was tickled. what was there indeed to tickle anybody's vanity in the situation? it was all constance--constance--constance! mrs. hooper was sometimes sick of the very name "lady constance bledlow," it had begun to get on her nerves. the only defence against any sort of "superiority," as some one has said, is to love it. but mrs. hooper did not love her husband's niece. she was often inclined to wish, as she caught sight of alice's pinched face, that the household had never seen her. and yet without connie's three hundred a year, where would the household be! mrs. hooper was painfully, one might have said, guiltily aware of that side of the business. she was an incompetent, muddling woman, who had never learnt to practise the simple and dignified thrift so common in the academic households of the university. for nowhere, really, was plain living gayer or more attractive than in the new oxford of this date. the young mothers who wheeled their own perambulators in the parks, who bathed and dressed and taught their children, whose house-books showed a spirited and inventive economy of which they were inordinately proud, who made their own gowns of liberty stuff in scorn of the fashion, were at the same time excellent hostesses, keeping open house on sundays for their husbands' undergraduate pupils, and gallantly entertaining their own friends and equals at small flowery dinner-parties in morris-papered rooms, where the food and wine mattered little, and good talk and happy comradeship were the real fare. meanwhile the same young mothers were going to lectures on the angevins, or reading goethe or dante in the evenings--a few friends together, gathering at each other's houses; then were discussing politics and social reform; and generally doing their best--unconsciously--to silence the croakers and misogynists who maintained that when all the girl babies in the perambulators were grown up, and oxford was flooded with womenkind like all other towns, oxford would have gone to "death and damnation." but mrs. hooper, poor lady, was not of this young and wholesome generation. she was the daughter of a small midland manufacturer, who had rushed into sudden wealth, for a few years, had spent it all in riotous living, over a period just sufficient to spoil his children, and had then died leaving them penniless. ewen hooper had come across her when he was lecturing at a northern university, immediately after his own appointment at oxford. he had passed a harassed and penurious youth, was pining for a home. in ten days he was engaged to this girl whom he met at the house of a manchester professor. she took but little wooing, was indeed so enchanted to be wooed that ewen hooper soon imagined himself in love with her; and all was done. nor indeed had it answered so badly for him--for a time. she had given him children, and a home, though an uncomfortable one. greek scholarship and greek beauty were the real idols of his heart and imagination. they did not fail him. but his wife did him one conspicuous ill turn. from the first days of their marriage, she ran her husband badly into debt; and things had got slowly worse with the years. mrs. hooper was the most wasteful of managers; servants came and went interminably; and while money oozed away, there was neither comfort nor luxury to show for it. as the girls grew up, they learnt to dread the sound of the front doorbell, which so often meant an angry tradesman; and ewen hooper, now that he was turning grey, lived amid a perpetual series of mean annoyances with which he was never meant to cope, and which he was now beginning to hand over, helplessly, to his younger daughter nora, the one member of the family who showed some power to deal with them. the situation had been almost acute, when lord risborough died. but there was a legacy in his will for ewen hooper which had given a breathing space; and connie had readily consented to pay a year's maintenance in advance. yet still the drawer of bills, on which nora kept anxious watch, was painfully full; and of late the perennial difficulty of ready money had reappeared. mrs. hooper declared she must have a new dress, if these invitations were to be accepted. "i don't want anything extravagant," she said fretfully. "but really it's too bad of nora to say that i could have my old blue one done up. she never seems to care how her mother looks. if all this fuss is going to be made about constance and i am to take her out, i must be decent!" the small underhung mouth shut obstinately. these musts of her mother's and alice's were nora's terror. they always meant a new bill. alice said--"of course! and especially when constance dresses so extravagantly!" she added bitterly. "one can't look like her scullery-maid!" mrs. hooper sighed. she glanced round her to see that the door was shut. "that silly child, nora, had quite a scene with connie this morning, because connie offered to give her that pretty white dress in brandon's window. she told me connie had insulted her. such nonsense! why shouldn't connie give her a dress--and you too? she has more money than she knows how to spend." alice did not reply. she, too, wanted new dresses; she could hardly endure the grace and costliness of connie's garments, when she compared them with her own; but there was something in her sad little soul also that would not let her be beholden to connie. not without a struggle, anyway. "i don't want connie to give me things either," she said sulkily. "she's never been the least nice to me. she makes a pet of nora, and the rest of us might be doormats for all the notice she takes of us." "well, i don't know--she's quite civil," said mrs. hooper reflectively. she added, after a minute--"it's extraordinary how the servants will do anything for her!" "why, of course, she tips them!" cried alice, indignantly. mrs. hooper shrugged her shoulders. it was quite indifferent to her whether connie tipped them or not, so long as she gained by the result. and there was no denying the fact that the house had never gone so smoothly as since connie's arrival. at the same time her conscience reminded her that there was probably something else than "tipping" in the matter. for instance--both constance and annette were now intimately acquainted with each of mrs. hooper's three maids, and all their family histories; whereas mrs. hooper always found it impossible to remember their surnames. a few days before this date, susan the housemaid had received a telegram telling her of the sudden death of a brother in south africa. in mrs. hooper's view it was providential that the death had occurred in south africa, as there could be no inconvenient question of going to the funeral. but connie had pleaded that the girl might go home for two days to see her mother; annette had done the housework during her absence; and both maid and mistress had since been eagerly interested in the girl's mourning, which had been largely supplied out of connie's wardrobe. naturally the opinion of the kitchen was that "her ladyship is sweet!" alice, however, had not found any sweetness in connie. was it because mr. herbert pryce seemed to take a mysterious pleasure in pointing out her, charms to alice? alice supposed he meant it well. there was a didactic element in him which was always leading him to try and improve other people. but it filled her with a silent fury. "is everybody coming to the picnic to-morrow?" asked mrs. hooper presently. "everybody." alice pointed indifferently to a pile of notes lying on her desk. "you asked connie if we should invite mr. falloden?" "of course i did, mother. he is away till next week." "i wonder if she cares for him?" said mrs. hooper vaguely. alice laughed. "if she does, she consoles herself pretty well, when he's not here." "you mean with mr. sorell?" alice nodded. "such a ridiculous pretence, those greek lessons!" she said, her small face flaming. "nora says, after they have done a few lines, constance begins to talk, and mr. sorell throws himself back in his chair, and they chatter about the places they've seen together, and the people they remember, till there's no more time left. nora says it's a farce." "i say, who's taking my name in vain?" said nora, who had just opened the schoolroom door and overheard the last sentence. "come in and shut the door," said alice, "we were talking about your greek lessons." "jolly fun they are!" said nora, balancing herself, as usual, on the window-sill. "we don't do much greek, but that don't matter! what are these notes, mother?" mrs. hooper handed them over. alice threw a mocking look at her sister. "who said that oxford didn't care about titles? when did any of those people ever take any notice of us?" "it isn't titles--it's connie!" said nora stoutly. "it's because she's handsome and clever--and yet she isn't conceited; she's always interested in other people. and she's an orphan--and people were very fond of her mother. and she talks scrumptiously about italy. and she's new--and there's a bit of romance in it--and--well, there it is!" and nora pulled off a twig from the banksia rose outside, and began to chew it energetically with her firm white teeth, by way of assisting her thoughts. "isn't conceited!" repeated alice with contempt. "connie is as proud as lucifer." "i didn't say she wasn't. but she isn't vain." alice laughed. "can't you see the difference?" said nora impatiently. "'proud' means 'don't be such a fool as to imagine that i'm thinking of you!'--'vain' means 'i wonder dreadfully what you're thinking of me?'" "well then, connie is both proud and vain," said alice with decision. "i don't mean she doesn't know she's rich, and good-looking and run after," said nora, beginning to flounder. "but half the time, anyway, she forgets it." "except when she is talking to men," said alice vindictively, to which mrs. hooper added with her little obstinate air-- "any girl who likes admiration as much as connie does must be vain. of course, i don't blame her." "likes admiration? hm," said nora, still chewing at her twig. "yes, i suppose she does. but she's good at snubbing, too." and she threw a glance at her sister. she was thinking of a small evening party the night before, at which, it seemed to her, connie had several times snubbed herbert pryce rather severely. alice said nothing. she knew what nora meant. but that connie should despise what she had filched away only made things worse. mrs. hooper sighed again--loudly. "the point is--is she carrying on with that man, mr. falloden?" nora looked up indignantly. her mother's vulgarity tormented her. "how can she be 'carrying on,' mother? he won't be in oxford again till his schools." "oh, you never know," said mrs. hooper vaguely. "well, i must go and answer these notes." she went away. nora descended gloomily from the window-sill. "mother wants a new dress. if we don't all look out, we shall be in queer street again." "you're always so dismal," said alice impatiently. "things are a great deal better than they were." "well, goodness knows what would have happened to us if they weren't!" cried nora. "besides they 're not nearly so much better as you think. and the only reason why they're better is that uncle risborough left us some money, and connie's come to live here. and you and mother do nothing but say horrid things about her, behind her back!" she looked at her sister with accusing eyes. but alice tossed her head, and declared she wasn't going to be lectured by her younger sister. "you yourself told mother this morning that connie had insulted you." "yes, and i was a beast to say so!" cried the girl "she meant it awfully well. only i thought she thought i had been trying to sponge on her; because i said something about having no dresses for the commem. balls, even if i wanted to 'come out' then--which i don't!--and she straightaway offered to give me that dress in brandon's. and i was cross, and behaved like a fiend. and afterwards connie said she was awfully sorry if she'd hurt my feelings." and suddenly nora's brown eyes filled with tears. "well, you get on with her," said alice, with fresh impatience--"and i don't. that's all there is to it. now do go away and let me get on with the hat." * * * * * that night, after connie had finished her toilet for the night and was safely in bed, with a new novel of fogazzaro before her and a reading lamp beside her, she suddenly put out her arms, and took annette's apple-red countenance--as the maid stooped over her to straighten the bed-clothes--between her two small hands. "netta, i've had a real bad day!" "and why, please, my lady?" said annette rather severely, as she released herself. "first i had a quarrel with nora--then some boring people came to lunch--then i had a tiresome ride--and now aunt ellen has been pointing out to me that it's all my fault she has to get a new dress, because people will ask me to dinner-parties. i don't want to go to dinner-parties!" and connie fell back on her pillows, with a great stretch, her black brows drawn over eyes that still smiled beneath them. "it's very ungrateful of you to talk of a tiresome ride--when that gentleman took such pains to get you a nice horse," said annette, still tidying and folding as she moved about the room. constance watched her, her eyes shining absently as the thoughts passed through them. at last she said: "do come here, annette!" annette came, rather unwillingly. she sat down on the end of constance's bed, and took out some knitting from her pocket. she foresaw a conversation in which she would need her wits about her, and some mechanical employment steadied the mind. "annette, you know," said constance slowly, "i've got to be married some time." "i've heard you say that before." annette began to count some stitches. "oh, it's all very well," said constance, with amusement--"you think you know all about me, but you don't. you don't know, for instance, that i went to ride over a week ago with a young man, without telling you, or aunt ellen, or uncle ewen, or anybody!" she waited to see the effect of her announcement. annette did appear rather startled. "i suppose you met him on the road?" "i didn't! i made an appointment with him. we went to a big wood, some miles out of oxford, belonging to some people he knows, where there are beautiful grass rides. he has the key of the gates--we sent away the groom--and i was an hour alone with him--quite! there!" there was a defiant accent on the last word. annette shook her head. she had been fifteen years in the risboroughs' service, and remembered connie when she was almost a baby. "whatever were you so silly for? you know your mamma wouldn't have let you." "well, i've not got my mamma," said connie slowly. "and i'm not going to be managed by aunt ellen, netta. i intend to run my own show." "who is it?" said annette, knitting busily. connie laughed. "do you think i'm going to tell you?" "you needn't. i've got eyes in my head. it's that gentleman you met in france." connie swung herself round and laid violent hands on annette's knitting. "you shan't knit. look at me! you can't say he's not good-looking?" "which he knows--a deal sight more than is good for him," said annette, setting her mouth a little grimly. "everybody knows when they're good-looking, you dear silly! of course, he's most suitable--dreadfully so. and i can't make up my mind whether i care for him a bit!" she folded her arms in front of her, her little chin fell forward on her white wrappings, and she stared rather sombrely into vacancy. "what's wrong with him?" said annette after a pause--adopting a tone in which she might have discussed a new hat. "oh, i don't know," said connie dreamily. she was thinking of falloden's sudden departure from oxford, after his own proposal of two more rides. his note, "crying off" till after the schools, had seemed to her not quite as regretful as it might have been; his epistolary style lacked charm. and it was impertinent of him to suggest lord meyrick as a substitute. she had given the lathom woods a wide berth ever since her first adventure there; and she hoped that lord meyrick had spent some disappointed hours in those mossy rides. all the same it looked as though she were going to see a good deal of douglas falloden. she raised her eyes suddenly. "annette, i didn't tell you i'd heard from two of my aunts to-day!" "you did!" annette dropped her knitting of her own accord this time, and sat open-mouthed. "two long letters. funny, isn't it? well, aunt langmoor wants me to go to her directly--in time anyway for a ball at tamworth house--horribly smart--prince and princess coming--everybody begging for tickets. she's actually got an invitation for me--i suppose by asking for it!--rather calm of her. she calls me 'dearest connie.' and i never saw her! but papa used to be fond of her, and she was never rude to mamma. what shall i say?" "well, i think you'd much better go," said annette decidedly. "you've never worn that dress you got at nice, and it'll be a dish-cloth if you keep it much longer. the way we have to crush things in this place!" and she looked angrily even at the capacious new wardrobe which took up one whole side of the room. "all right!" laughed constance. "then i'll accept aunt langmoor, because you can't find any room for my best frock. it's a toss up. that settles it. well, but now for aunt marcia--" she drew a letter from the pages of her french book, and opened it. * * * * * "my dear constance"--so it ran--"i should like to make your acquaintance, and i hear that you are at oxford with your uncle. i would come and see you but that i never leave home. oxford, too, depresses me dreadfully. why should people learn such a lot of useless things? we are being ruined by all this education. however, what i meant to say was that winifred and i would be glad to see you here if you care to come. winifred, by the way, is quite aware that she behaved like a fool twenty-two years ago. but as you weren't born then, we suggest it shouldn't matter. we have all done foolish things. i, for instance, invented a dress--a kind of bloomer thing--only it wasn't a bloomer. i took a shop for it in bond street, and it nearly ruined me. but i muddled through--that's our english way, isn't it?--and somehow things come right. now, i am very political, and winifred's very churchy--it doesn't really matter what you take up. so do come. you can bring your maid and have a sitting-room. nobody would interfere with you. but, of course, we should introduce you to some nice people. if you are a sensible girl--and i expect you are, for your father was a very clever man--you must know that you ought to marry as soon as possible. there aren't many young men about here. what becomes of all the young men in england, i'm sure i don't know. but there are a few--and quite possible. there are the kenbarrows, about four miles off--a large family--_nouveaux riches_--the father made buttons, or something of the kind. but the children are all most presentable, and enormously rich. and, of course, there are the fallodens--quite near--mr. and lady laura, douglas, the eldest son, a girl of seventeen, and two children. you'll probably see douglas at oxford. oh, i believe sir arthur falloden, _père_, told me the other day you had already met him somewhere. winifred and i don't like douglas. but that's neither here nor there. he's a magnificent creature, who can't be bothered with old ladies. he'll no doubt make himself agreeable to you--_cela va sans dire_. i don't altogether like what i hear sometimes about the fallodens. of course sir arthur's very rich, but they say he's been speculating enormously, and that he's been losing a good deal of money lately. however, i don't suppose it matters. their place, flood castle, is really splendid--old to begin with, and done up! they have copied the americans and given every room a bathroom. absurd extravagance! and think of the plumbing! it was that kind of thing gave the prince of wales typhoid. i hate drains! "well, anyway, do come and see us. sophia langmoor tells me she has written to you, and if you go to her, you might come on here afterwards. winifred who has just read this letter says it will 'put you off.' i don't see why it should. i certainly don't want it to. i'm downright, i know, but i'm not hypocritical. the world's just run on white lies nowadays--and i can't stand it. i don't tell any--if i can help. "oh, and there is penfold rectory not very far off--and a very nice man there, though too 'broad' for winifred. he tells me he's going to have some people staying with him--a mr. sorell, and a young musician with a polish name--i can't remember it. mr. sorell's going to coach the young man, or something. they're to be paying guests, for a month at least. mr. powell was mr. sorell's college tutor--and mr. powell's dreadfully poor--so i'm glad. no wife, mercifully! "anyway, you see, there are plenty of people about. do come. "i am, dear constance, your affectionate aunt, marcia risborough." "now what on earth am i going to do about that?" said constance, tossing the letter over to annette. "well, mr. and mrs. hooper are going, cook says, to the isle of wight, and miss alice is going with them," said annette, "and miss nora's going to join them after a bit in scotland." "i know all that," said constance impatiently. "the question is--do you see me sitting in lodgings at ryde with aunt ellen for five or six weeks, doing a little fancy-work, and walking out with aunt ellen and alice on the pier?" annette laughed discreetly over her knitting, but said nothing. "no," said connie decidedly. "that can't be done. i shall have to sample aunt marcia. i must speak to uncle ewen to-morrow. now put the light out, please, annette; i'm going to sleep." but it was some time before she went to sleep. the night was hot and thunderous, and her windows were wide open. drifting in came the ever-recurring bells of oxford, from the boom of the christ church "tom," far away, through every variety of nearer tone. connie lay and sleepily listened to them. to her they were always voices, half alive, half human, to which the dreaming mind put words that varied with the mood of the dreamer. presently, she breathed a soft good night into the darkness--"mummy--mummy darling! good night!" it was generally her last waking thought. but suddenly another--which brought with it a rush of excitement--interposed between her and sleep. "tuesday," she murmured--"mr. sorell says the schools will be over by tuesday. i wonder!--" and again the bluebell carpet seemed to be all round her--the light and fragrance and colour of the wood. and the man on the black horse beside her was bending towards her, all his harsh strength subdued, for the moment, to the one end of pleasing her. she saw the smile in his dark eyes; and the touch of sarcastic _brusquerie_ in the smile, that could rouse her own fighting spirit, as the touch of her whip roused the brown mare. * * * * * "am i really so late?" said connie, in distress, running downstairs the following afternoon to find the family and various guests waiting for her in the hall. "well, i hope we shan't miss everybody," said alice sharply. "how late are we?" she turned to herbert pryce. the young don smiled and evaded the question. "nearly half an hour!" said alice. "of course they'll think we're not coming." "they" were another section of the party who were taking a couple of boats round from the lower river, and were to meet the walkers coming across the parks, at the cherwell. "dreadfully sorry!" said connie, who had opened her eyes, however, as though alice's tone astonished her. "but my watch has gone quite mad." "it does it every afternoon!" murmured alice to a girl friend of nora's who was going with the party. it was an aside, but plainly heard by constance--whose cheeks flushed. she turned appealingly to herbert pryce. "please carry my waterproof, while i button my gloves." pryce was enchanted. as the party left the house, he and constance walked on together, ahead of the others. she put on her most charming manners, and the young man was more than flattered. what was it, he asked himself, complacently, that gave her such a delicate distinction? her grey dress, and soft grey hat, were, he supposed, perfect of their kind. but oxford in the summer term was full of pretty dresses. no, it must be her ease, her sureness of herself that banished any awkward self-consciousness both in herself and her companions, and allowed a man to do himself justice. he forgot her recent snubs and went off at score about his own affairs, his college, his prospects of winning a famous mathematical prize given by the berlin academy, his own experience of german universities, and the shortcomings of oxford. on these last he became scornfully voluble. he was inclined to think he should soon cut it, and go in for public life. these university towns were really very narrowing! "certainly," said constance amiably. was he thinking of parliament? well, no, not at once. but journalism was always open to a man with brains, and through journalism one got into the house, when the chance came along. the house of commons was dangerously in want of new blood. "i am certain i could speak," he said ardently. "i have made several attempts here, and i may say they have always come off." constance threw him a shy glance. she was thinking of a dictum of uncle ewen's which he had delivered to her on a walk some days previously. "what is it makes the mathematicians such fools? they never seem to grow up. they tell us they're splendid fellows, and of course we must believe them. but who's to know?" meanwhile, alice and sorell followed them at some distance behind, while mrs. hooper and three or four other members of the party brought up the rear. scroll's look was a little clouded. he had heard what passed in the hall, and he found himself glancing uncomfortably from the girl beside him to the pair forging so gaily ahead. alice hooper's expression seemed to him that of something weak and tortured. all through the winter, in the small world of oxford, the flirtation between pryce of beaumont and ewen hooper's eldest girl had been a conspicuous thing, even for those who had little or no personal knowledge of the hoopers. it was noticed with amusement that pryce had at last found some one to whom he might talk as long and egotistically as he pleased about himself and his career; and kindly mothers had said to each other that it would be a comfort to the hoopers to have one of the daughters settled, though in a modest way. "it is pleasant to see that your cousin enjoys oxford so much," said sorell, as they neared the museum, and saw pryce and connie disappearing through the gate of the park. "yes. she seems to like it," said alice coldly. sorell began to talk of his first acquaintance with the risboroughs, and of connie's mother. there was no hint in what he said of his own passionate affection for his dead friends. he was not a profaner of shrines. but what he said brought out the vastness of connie's loss in the death of her mother; and he repeated something of what he had heard from others of her utter physical and mental collapse after the double tragedy of the year before. "of course you'll know more about it than i do. but one of the english doctors in rome, who is a friend of mine, told me that they thought at one time they couldn't pull her through. she seemed to have nothing else to live for." "oh, i don't think it was as bad as that," said alice drily. "anyway, she's quite well and strong now." "she's found a home again. that's a great comfort to all her mother's old friends." sorell smiled upon his companion; the sensitive kindness in his own nature appealing to the natural pity in hers. but alice made no reply; and he dropped the subject. they walked across the park, under a wide summer sky, towards the winding river, and the low blue hills beyond it. at the cherwell boat-house they found the two boats, with four or five men, and nora, as usual, taking charge of everything, at least till herbert pryce should appear. connie was just stepping into the foremost boat, assisted by herbert pryce, who was in his shirt-sleeves, while lord meyrick and another marmion man were already in the boat. "sorell, will you stroke the other boat?" said pryce, "and miss nora, will you have a cushion in the bows? now i think we're made up. no--we want another lady. and running his eyes over those still standing on the bank, he called a plump little woman, the wife of a llandaff tutor, who had been walking with mrs. hooper. "mrs. maddison, will you come with us? i think that will about trim us." mrs. maddison obeyed him with alacrity, and the first boat pushed off. mrs. hooper, alice, sorell, two st. cyprian undergraduates and nora's girl friend, miss watson, followed in the second. then, while the june evening broadened and declined, the party wound in and out of the curves of the cherwell. the silver river, brimming from a recent flood, lay sleepily like a gorged serpent between the hay meadows on either side. flowers of the edge, meadow-sweet, ragged-robin and yellow flags, dipped into the water; willows spread their thin green over the embattled white and blue of the sky; here and there a rat plunged or a bird fled shrieking; bushes of wild roses flung out their branches, and everywhere the heat and the odours of a rich open land proclaimed the fulness of the midland summer. connie made the life of the leading boat. something had roused her, and she began to reveal some of the "parlour-tricks," with which she had amused the palazzo barberini in her roman days. a question from pryce stirred her into quoting some of the folk-songs of the campagna, some comic, some tragic, fitting an action to them so lively and true that even those of her hearers who could not follow the dialect sat entranced. then some one said--"but they ought to be sung!" and suddenly, though rather shyly, she broke into a popular _canzone_ of the garibaldian time, describing the day of villa gloria; the march of the morning, the wild hopes, the fanfaronade; and in the evening, a girl hiding a wounded lover and weeping both for him and "italia" undone. the sweet low sounds floated along the river. "delicious!" said sorell, holding his oar suspended to listen. he remembered the song perfectly. he had heard her sing it in many places--rome, naples, syracuse. it was a great favourite with her mother, for whom the national upheaval of italy--the heroic struggle of the risorgimento--had been a life-long passion. "why did connie never tell us she could sing!" said mrs. hooper in her thin peevish voice. "girls really shouldn't hide their accomplishments." sorell's oar dropped into the water with a splash. * * * * * at marston ferry, there was a general disembarking, a ramble along the river bank and tea under a group of elms beside a broad reach of the stream. sorell noticed, that in spite of the regrouping of the two boat loads, as they mingled in the walk, herbert pryce never left connie's side. and it seemed to him, and to others, that she was determined to keep him there. he must gather yellow flag and pink willow-herb for her, must hook a water-lily within reach of the bank with her parasol, must explain to her about english farms, and landlords, and why the labourers were discontented--why there were no peasant owners, as in italy--and so on, and so on. round-faced mrs. maddison, who had never seen the hoopers' niece before, watched her with amusement, deciding that, distinguished and refined as the girl was, she was bent on admiration, and not too critical as to whence it came. the good-natured, curly-haired meyrick, who was discontentedly reduced to helping alice and nora with the tea, and had never been so bored with a river picnic before, consoled himself by storing up rich materials for a "chaff" of douglas when they next met--perhaps that evening, after hall? alice meanwhile laughed and talked with the freshman whom meyrick had brought with him from marmion. her silence and pallor had gone; she showed a kind of determined vivacity. sorell, with his strange gift of sympathy, found himself admiring her "pluck." when the party returned to the boat-house in the evening, sorell, whose boat had arrived first at the landing-stage, helped constance to land. pryce, much against his will, was annexed by nora to help her return the boats to the isis; the undergraduates who had brought them being due at various engagements in oxford. sorell carried constance off. he thought that he had never seen her look more radiant. she was flushed with success and praise, and the gold of the river sunset glorified her as she walked. behind them, dim figures in the twilight, followed mrs. hooper and alice, with the two other ladies, their cavaliers having deserted them. "i am so glad you like mr. pryce," said sorell suddenly. constance looked at him in astonishment. "but why? i don't like him very much!" "really? i was glad because i suppose--doesn't everybody suppose?"--he looked at her smiling--"that there'll be some news in that quarter presently?" constance was silent a moment. at last, she said-- "you mean--he'll propose to alice?" "isn't that what's expected?" he too had reddened. he was a shy man, and he was suddenly conscious that he had done a marked thing. another silence. then constance faced him, her face now more than flushed--aflame. "i see. you think i have been behaving badly?" he stammered. "i didn't know perhaps--whether--you have been such a little while here--whether you had come across the oxford gossip. i wish sometimes--you know i'm an old friend of your uncle--that it could be settled. little miss alice has begun to look very worn." constance walked on, her eyes on the ground. he could see the soft lace on her breast fluttering. what foolish quixotry--what jealousy for an ideal--had made him run this hideous risk of offending her? he held his breath till she should look at him again. when she did, the beauty of the look abashed him. "thank you!" she said quietly. "thank you very much. alice annoyed me--she doesn't like me, you see--and i took a mean revenge. well, now you understand--how i miss mamma!" she held out her hand to him impulsively, and he enclosed it warmly in his; asking her, rather incoherently, to forgive his impertinence. was it to be ella risborough's legacy to him--this futile yearning to help--to watch over--her orphaned child? much good the legacy would do him, when connie's own will was really engaged! he happened to know that douglas falloden was already in oxford again, and in a few more days greats would be over, and the young man's energies released. what possible justification had he, sorell, for any sort of interference in this quarter? it seemed to him, indeed, as to many others, that the young man showed every sign of a selfish and violent character. what then? are rich and handsome husbands so plentiful? have the moralists ever had their way with youth and sex in their first turbulent hour? chapter viii this little scene with sorell, described in the last chapter, was of great importance to connie's after history. it had placed her suddenly on a footing of intimacy with a man of poetic and lofty character, and had transformed her old childish relation to him--which had alone made the scene possible--into something entirely different. it produced a singular effect upon her that such a man should care enough what befell her to dare to say what he had said to her. it had been--she admitted it--a lesson in scrupulousness, in high delicacy of feeling, in magnanimity. "you are trifling with what may be the life of another--just to amuse yourself--or to pay off a moment's offence. only the stupid or cruel souls do such things--or think lightly of them. but not you--your mother's daughter!" that had been the meaning of his sudden incursion. the more connie thought of it, the more it thrilled her. it was both her charm and her weakness, at this moment, that she was so plastic, so responsive both for good and evil. she said to herself that she was fortunate to have such a friend; and she was conscious of a new and eager wish to win his praise, or to avoid his blame. at the same time it did not occur to her to tell him anything of her escapade with douglas falloden. but the more closely she kept this to herself, the more eager she was to appease her conscience and satisfy sorell, in the matter of alice and herbert pryce. her instinct showed her what to do, and sorell watched her struggling with the results of her evening's flirtation with much secret amusement and applause. herbert pryce having been whistled on, had to be whistled off, and alice had to be gently and gradually reassured; yet without any obvious penitence on connie's part, which would only have inflicted additional wounds on alice's sore spirit. and connie did it, broadly speaking, during the week of falloden's schools. sorell himself was busy every day and all day as one of the greats examiners. he scarcely saw her for more than two half-hours during a hideously strenuous week, through which he sat immersed in the logic and philosophy papers of the disappearing generation of honour men. among the papers of the twenty or thirty men who were the certain firsts of the year, he could not help paying a special attention to douglas falloden's. what a hard and glittering mind the fellow had!--extraordinarily competent and well-trained; extraordinarily lacking, as it seemed to sorell, in width or pliancy, or humanity. one of the ablest essays sent in, however, was a paper by falloden on the "sentimentalisms of democracy"--in which a reasoned and fierce contempt for the popular voice, and a brilliant glorification of war and of a military aristocracy, made very lively reading. on the later occasion, when sorell and constance met during the week, he found radowitz in the hoopers' drawing-room. sorell had gone in after dinner to consult with ewen hooper, one of his fellow examiners, over some doubtful papers, and their business done, the two men allowed themselves an interval of talk and music with the ladies before beginning work again till the small hours. constance, in diaphanous black, was at the piano, trying to recall, for radowitz's benefit, some of the italian folk-songs that had delighted the river-party. the room was full of a soft mingled light from the still uncurtained windows and the lamp which had been just brought in. it seemed to be specially concentrated on the hair, "golden like ripe corn," of the young musician, and on connie's white neck and arms. radowitz lay back in a low chair gazing at her with all his eyes. on the further side of the room nora was reading, mrs. hooper was busy with the newspaper, and alice and herbert pryce were talking with the air of people who are, rather uncomfortably, making up a quarrel. sorell spent his half-hour mostly in conversation with mrs. hooper and nora, while his inner mind wondered about the others. he stood with his back to the mantelpiece, his handsome pensive face, with its intensely human eyes, bent towards nora, who was pouring out to him some grievances of the "home-students," to which he was courteously giving a jaded man's attention. when he left the room radowitz broke out-- "isn't he like a god?" connie opened astonished eyes. "who?" "my tutor--mr. sorell. ah, you didn't notice--but you should. he is like the hermes--only grown older, and with a soul. but there is no greek sculptor who could have done him justice. it would have wanted a praxiteles; but with the mind of euripides!" the boy's passionate enthusiasm pleased her. but she could think of nothing less conventional in reply than to ask if sorell were popular in college. "oh, they like him well enough. they know what trouble he takes for them, and there's nobody dares cheek him. but they don't understand him. he's too shy. wasn't it good fortune for me that he happens to be my friend?" and he began to talk at headlong speed, and with considerable eloquence, of sorell's virtues and accomplishments. constance, who had been brought up in a southern country, liked the eloquence. something in her was already tired of the slangy brevities that do duty in england for conversation. at the same time she thought she understood why falloden, and meyrick, and others called the youth a _poseur_, and angrily wished to snub him. he possessed besides, in-bred, all the foreign aids to the mere voice--gesticulation of hands and head, movements that to the englishman are unexpected and therefore disagreeable. also there, undeniably, was the frilled dress-shirt, and the two diamond studs, much larger and more conspicuous than oxford taste allowed, which added to its criminality. and it was easy to see too that the youth was inordinately proud of his polish ancestry, and inclined to rate all englishmen as _parvenus_ and shopkeepers. "was it in paris you first made friends with mr. sorell?" connie asked him. radowitz nodded. "i was nineteen. my uncle had just died. i had nobody. you understand, my father was exiled twenty years ago. we belong to german poland; though there has always been a branch of the family in cracow. for more than a hundred years these vile germans have been crushing and tormenting us. they have taken our land, they have tried to kill our language and our religion. but they can not. our soul lives. poland lives. and some day there will be a great war--and then poland will rise again. from the east and the west and the south they will come--and the body that was hewn asunder will be young and glorious again." his blue eyes shone. "some day, i will play you that in music. chopin is full of it--the death of poland--and then her soul, her songs, her hopes, her rising again. ah, but sorell!--i will explain. i saw him one night at a house of kind people--the master of it was the directeur of the ecole des sciences politiques--and his wife. she was so beautiful, though she was not young; and gentle, like a child; and so good. i was nothing to them--but i went to some lectures at the school, while i was still at the conservatoire, and i used to go and play to them sometimes. so when my uncle died, they said, 'come and stay with us.' i had really nobody. my father and mother died years ago. my mother, you understand, was half english; i always spoke english with her. she knew i must be a musician. that was settled when i was a child. music is my life. but if i took it for a profession, she made me promise to see some other kinds of life first. she often said she would like me to go to oxford. she had some old engravings of the colleges she used to show me. i am not a pauper, you see,--not at all. my family was once a very great family; and i have some money--not very much, but enough. so then mr. sorell and i began to talk. and i had suddenly the feeling--'if this man will tell me what to do, i will do it.' and then he found i was thinking of oxford, and he said, if i came, he would be my friend, and look after me. and so he advised me to go to marmion, because some of the tutors there were great friends of his. and that is why i went. and i have been there nearly a year." "and you like it?" connie, sitting hunched on the music-stool, her chin on her hand, was thinking of falloden's outburst, and her own rebuff in lathom woods. the boy shrugged his shoulders. he looked at connie with his brilliant eyes, and she seemed to see that he was on the point of confiding in her, of complaining of his treatment, and then proudly checked himself. "oh, i like it well enough," he said carelessly. "i am reading classics. i love greek. there is a soul in greek. latin--and rome--that is too like the germans! now let me play to you--something from poland." he took her seat at the piano, and began to play--first in a dreamy and quiet way, passing from one plaintive folk-song to another; then gradually rising into passion, defiance, tragedy. constance stood listening to him in amazement--entranced. music was a natural language to her as it was to radowitz, though her gift was so small and slight compared to his. but she understood and followed him; and there sprang up in her, as she sat turning her delicate face to the musician, that sudden, impassioned delight, that sense of fellowship with things vast and incommunicable--"exultations, agonies, and love, and man's unconquerable mind"--which it is the glorious function of music to kindle in the human spirit. [illustration: _lady connie had stood entranced by the playing of radowitz_] the twilight darkened. every sound in the room but radowitz's playing had ceased; even mrs. hooper had put down her newspaper. nora, on the further side of the room, was absorbed in watching the two beautiful figures under the lamplight, the golden-haired musician and the listening girl. suddenly there was a noise of voices in the hall outside. the drawing-room door was thrown open, and the parlourmaid announced: "mr. falloden." mrs. hooper rose hastily. radowitz wavered in a march finale he was improvising, and looked round. "oh, go on!" cried constance. but radowitz ceased playing. he got up, with an angry shake of his wave of hair, muttered something about "another couple of hours' work" and closed the piano. constance remained sitting, as though unaware of the new arrival in the room. "that was wonderful!" she said, with a long breath, her eyes raised to radowitz. "now i shall go and read polish history!" a resonant voice said: "hullo--radowitz! good-evening, lady connie. isn't this a scandalous time to call? but i came about the ball-tickets for next wednesday--to ask how many your aunt wants. there seems to be an unholy rush on them." connie put out a careless hand. "how do you do? we've been having the most divine music! next wednesday? oh, yes, i remember!" and as she recovered her hand from falloden, she drew it across her eyes, as though trying to dispel the dream in which radowitz's playing had wrapped her. then the hand dropped, and she saw the drawing-room door closing on the player. falloden looked down upon her with a sarcastic mouth, which, however, worked nervously. "i'm extremely sorry to bring you down to earth. i suppose he's awfully good." "it's genius," said connie, breathlessly--"just that--genius! i had no idea he had such a gift." falloden shrugged his shoulders without reply. he threw himself into a chair beside her, his knees crossed, his hands on the topmost knee, with the finger-tips lightly touching, an attitude characteristic of him. the lamp which had been brought in to light the piano shone full upon him, and constance perceived that, in spite of his self-confident ease of bearing, he looked haggard and pale with the long strain of the schools. her own manner relaxed. "have you really done?" she asked, more graciously. "i was in for my last paper this afternoon. i am now a free man." "and you've got your first?" he laughed. "that only the gods know. i may just squeak into it." "and now you've finished with oxford?" "oh, dear, no! there's a fortnight more. one keeps the best--for the last." "then your people are coming up again for commem.?" the innocence of the tone was perfect. his sparkling eyes met hers. "i have no domestic prospects of that sort," he said drily. "what i shall do with this fortnight depends entirely--on one person." the rest of the room seemed full of a buzz of conversation which left them unobserved. connie had taken up her large lace fan and was slowly opening and closing it. the warm pallor of her face and throat, the golden brown of her hair, the grace of her neck and shoulders, enchanted the man beside her. for three weeks he had been holding desire in check with a strong hand. the tide of it rushed back upon him, with the joy of a released force. but he knew that he must walk warily. "will you please give me some orders?" he went on, smiling, seeing that she did not reply. "how has the mare been behaving?" "she is rather tame--a little too much of the sheep in her composition." "she wants a companion. so do i--badly. there is a little village beyond the lathom woods--which has a cottage--for tea--and a strawberry garden. shall we sample it?" constance shook her head laughing. "we haven't an hour. everybody asks us to parties, all day and all night long. london is a joke to oxford." "don't go!" said falloden impatiently. "i have been asked to meet you--three times--at very dull houses. but i shall go, of course, unless i can persuade you to do something more amusing." "oh, dear, no! we're in for it. but i thought people came here to read books?" "they do read a few; but when one has done with them one feels towards them like enemies whom one has defeated--and insults. i chucked my greek lexicon under the sofa, first thing, when i got back from the schools this afternoon." "wasn't that childish--rather? i am appalled to think how much you know." he laughed impatiently. "now one may begin to learn something. oxford is precious little use. but it's not worth while being beaten--in anything. shall we say thursday, then?--for our ride?" constance opened her eyes in pretended astonishment. "after the ball? shall i be awake? let's settle it on wednesday!" he could get no more definite promise from her, and must needs take his leave. before he went, he asked her to keep the first four dances for him at the marmion ball, and two supper-dances. but constance evaded a direct assent. she would do her best. but she had promised some to mr. pryce, and some to mr. radowitz. falloden's look darkened. "you should not allow him to dance with you," he said imperiously. "he is too eccentric. he doesn't know how to behave; and he makes his partners conspicuous." constance too had risen, and they confronted each other--she all wilfulness. "i shall certainly dance with him!" she said, with a little determined air. "you see, i like foreign ways!" he said good night abruptly. as he stood a few minutes on the further side of the room, making a few last arrangements as to the ball with mrs. hooper and alice, constance, still standing by the piano, and apparently chatting with herbert pryce, was really aware of falloden's every movement. his manner to her aunt was brusque and careless; and he forgot, apparently, to say good night either to alice or nora. nobody in the room, as she well knew, except herself, found any pleasure in his society. nora's hostile face in the background was a comic study. and yet, so long as he was there, nobody could forget or overlook him; so splendid was the physical presence of the man, and so strong the impression of his personality--even in trivial things. * * * * * meanwhile, everybody in the house had gone to bed, except nora and her father. she had lit a little fire in his study, as the night had grown chilly; she had put a little tray with tea on it by his side, and helped him to arrange the greats papers, in which he was still immersed, under his hand. and finally she brought his pipe and filled it for him. "must you sit up long, father?" "an hour or two," said ewen hooper wearily. "i wish i didn't get so limp. but these honour exams take it out of one. and i have to go to winchester to-morrow." "for the scholarship?" he nodded. "father! you work a great deal too hard--you look dog-tired!" cried nora in distress. "why do you do so much?" he shook his head sadly. "you know, darling." nora did know. she knew that every pound was of importance to the household, that the temporary respite caused by the legacy from lord risborough and by connie's prepayment would very soon come to an end, and that her father seemed to be more acutely aware of the position than he had yet been. her own cleverness, and the higher education she was steadily getting for herself enabled her to appreciate, as no one else in the family could or did, her father's delicate scholarly gifts, which had won him his reputation in oxford and outside. but the reputation might have been higher, if so much time had not been claimed year after year by the sheer pressure of the family creditors. with every year, nora had grown up into a fuller understanding of her father's tragedy; a more bitter, a more indignant understanding. they might worry through; one way or another she supposed they would worry through. but her father's strength and genius were being sacrificed. and this child of seventeen did not see how to stop it. after she had brought him his pipe, and he was drawing at it contentedly over the fire, she stood silent beside him, bursting with something she could not make up her mind to say. he put out an arm, as she stood beside his chair, and drew her to him. "dear little trotty veck!" it had been his pet name for her as a child. nora, for answer, bent her head, and kissed him. "father"--she broke out--"i've got my first job!" he looked up enquiringly. "mr. hurst"--she named her english literature tutor, a fellow of marmion--"has got it for me. i've been doing some norman-french with him; and there's a german professor has asked him to get part of a romance copied that's in the bodleian--the only manuscript. and mr. hurst says he'll coach me--i can easily do it--and i shall get ten pounds!" "well done, trotty veck!" ewen hooper smiled at her affectionately. "but won't it interfere with your work?" "not a bit. it will help it. father!--i'm going to earn a lot before long. if it only didn't take such a long time to grow up!" said nora impatiently. "one ought to be as old as one feels--and i feel quite twenty-one!" ewen hooper shook his head. "that's all wrong. one should be young--and taste being young, every moment, every day that one can. i wish i'd done it--now that i'm getting old." "you're not old!" cried nora. "you're not, father! you're not to say it!" and kneeling down by him, she laid her cheek against his shoulder, and put one of his long gaunt hands to her lips. her affection was very sweet to him, but it could not comfort him. there are few things, indeed, in which the old can be comforted by the young--the old, who know too much, both of life and themselves. but he pulled himself together. "dear trotty veck, you must go to bed, and let me do my work. but--one moment!" he laid a hand on her shoulder, and abruptly asked her whether she thought her cousin constance was in love with douglas falloden. "your mother's always talking to me about it," he said, with a wearied perplexity. "i don't know," said nora, frowning. "but i shouldn't wonder." "then i shall have to make some enquiries," said connie's guardian, with resignation. "she's a masterful young woman. but she can be very sweet when she likes. do you see what she gave me to-day?" he pointed to a beautiful viennese edition of aeschylus, in three sumptuous volumes, which had just appeared and was now lying on the reader's table. nora took it up with a cry of pleasure. she had her father's passion for books. "she heard me say to sorell, apparently, that i would give my eyes for it, and couldn't afford it. that was a week ago. and to-day, after luncheon, she stole in here like a mouse--you none of you saw or heard her--holding the books behind her--and looking as meek as milk. you would have thought she was a child, coming to say she was sorry! and she gave me the books in the prettiest way--just like her mother!--as though all the favour came from me. i'm beginning to be very fond of her. she's so nice to your old father. i say, nora!"--he held her again--"you and i have got to prevent her from marrying the wrong man!" nora shook her head, with an air of middle-aged wisdom. "connie will marry whomever she has a mind to!" she said firmly. "and it's no good, father, you imagining anything else." ewen hooper laughed, released her, and sent her to bed. the days that followed represented the latter part of the interval between the eights and commemoration, before oxford plunged once more into high festival. it was to be a brilliant commem.; for an ex-viceroy of india, a retired ambassador, england's best general, and five or six foreign men of science and letters, of rather exceptional eminence, were coming to get their honorary degrees. when mrs. hooper, _times_ in hand, read out at the breakfast-table the names of oxford's expected guests, constance bledlow looked up in surprised amusement. it seemed the ambassador and she were old friends; that she had sat on his knee as a baby through various carnival processions in the corso, showing him how to throw _confetti_; and that he and lady f. had given a dance at the embassy for her coming-out, when connie, at seventeen, and his excellency--still the handsomest man in the room, despite years and gout--had danced the first waltz together, and a subsequent minuet; which--though connie did not say so--had been the talk of rome. as to the ex-viceroy, he was her father's first cousin, and had passed through rome on his way east, staying three or four days at the palazzo barberini. constance, however, could not be induced to trouble her head about him. "he bored mamma and me dreadfully," she said--"he had seven pokers up his back, and was never human for a minute. i don't want to see him at all." oxford, however, seemed to be of the opinion that ex-viceroys do want to see their cousins; for the hooper party found themselves asked as a matter of course to the all souls' luncheon, the vice-chancellor's garden-party, and to a private dinner-party in christ church on the day of the encænia, at which all the new-made doctors were to be present. as for the ball-tickets for commem. week, they poured in; and meanwhile there were endless dinner-parties, and every afternoon had its river picnic, now on the upper, now on the lower river. it was clear, indeed, both to her relations and to oxford in general, that constance bledlow was to be the heroine of the moment. she would be the "star" of commem., as so many other pretty or charming girls had been before her. but in her case, it was no mere undergraduate success. old and young alike agreed to praise her. her rank inevitably gave her precedence at almost every dinner-party, oxford society not being rich in the peerage. the host, who was often the head of a college and grey-haired, took her in; and some other university big-wig, equally mature, flanked her on the right. when she was undressing in her little room after these entertainments, she would give annette a yawning or plaintive account of them. "you know, annette, i never talk to anybody under fifty now!" but at the time she never failed to play her part. she was born with the wish to please, which, as every one knows, makes three parts of the art of pleasing. meanwhile sorell, who was at all times a very popular man, in great request, accepted many more invitations than usual in order to see as much as he could of this triumphal progress of lady risborough's daughter. oxford society was then much more limited than now, and he and she met often. it seemed to him whenever he came across douglas falloden in connie's company during these days, that the young man's pursuit of constance, if it was a pursuit, was making no progress at all, and that his temper suffered accordingly. connie's endless engagements were constantly in the way. sorell thought he detected once or twice that falloden had taken steps to procure invitations to houses where constance was expected; but when they did meet it was evident that he got but a small share of her attention. once sorell saw them in what appeared intimate conversation at a christ church party. falloden--who was flushed and frowning--was talking rapidly in a low voice; and constance was listening to him with a look half soft, half mocking. her replies seemed to irritate her companion, for they parted abruptly, constance looking back to smile a sarcastic good-bye. again, on the sunday before the encænia, a famous high churchman preached in the university church. the church was densely crowded, and sorell, sitting in the masters' seats under the pulpit, saw constance dimly, in the pews reserved for wives and families of the university doctors and masters, beneath the gallery. immediately to her right, in the very front of the undergraduates' gallery, he perceived the tall form and striking head of douglas falloden; and when the sermon was over he saw that the young man was one of the first to push his way out. "he hopes to waylay her," thought sorell. if so, he was unsuccessful. sorell emerging with the stream into the high street saw connie's black and white parasol a little ahead. falloden was on the point of overtaking her, when radowitz, the golden-haired, the conspicuous, crossed his path. constance looked round, smiled, shook hands with radowitz, and apparently not seeing falloden in her rear, walked on, in merry talk with the beaming musician. sorell, perhaps, was the only person who noticed the look of pale fury with which falloden dropped out of the crowded pathway, crossed the street, and entered a smart club opposite, exclusively frequented by "bloods." commem. week itself, however, would give a man in love plenty of chances. sorell was well aware of it. monday dawned with misty sunshine after much rain. in the turl after luncheon, sorell met nora hooper hurrying along with note-books under her arm. they turned down brasenose lane together, and she explained that she was on her way to the bodleian where she was already at work on her first paid job. her pleasure in it, and the childish airs she gave herself in regard to it, touched and amused sorell, with whom--through the greek lessons--she had become a great favourite. as they parted at the doorway leading to the bodleian, she said with a mischievous look-- "did you know mr. falloden's party is off?" and she explained that for the following day, falloden had arranged the most elaborate and exclusive of river-parties, with tea in the private gardens of a famous house, ten miles from oxford. his mother and sister had been coming down for it, and he had asked other people from london. "it was all for connie--and connie's had to scratch! and mr. falloden has put it all off. he says his mother, lady laura, has a chill and can't come, but every one knows--it's connie!" she and sorell smiled at each other. they had never had many words on the subject, but they understood each other perfectly. "what made her scratch?" asked sorell, wondering. "royalties," said nora shortly, with a democratic nose in air. it appeared that a certain travelled and artistic princess had been spending the week-end in a ducal house in the neighbourhood. so, too, had the ex-viceroy. and hearing from him that the only daughter "of those dear risboroughs" was at oxford, twelve miles off, her royal highness, through him, had "commanded" constance for tea under the ducal roof on tuesday. a carriage was to be sent for her, and the ex-viceroy undertook to convey her back to oxford afterwards, he being due himself to dine and sleep at the vice-chancellor's the night before the encænia. "constance didn't want to go a bit. she was dreadfully annoyed. but father and mother made her. so she sent a note to mr. falloden, and he came round. she was out, but alice saw him. alice says he scarcely said a word, but you could feel he was in a towering rage." "poor falloden!" said sorell. nora's eyes twinkled. "yes, but so good for him! i'm sure he's always throwing over other people. now he knows "'golden lads and lasses must like chimney-sweepers come to dust.'" "vandal!" cried sorell--"to twist such a verse!" nora laughed, threw him a friendly nod, and vanished up the steps of the bodleian. but falloden's hour came! the encænia went off magnificently. connie, sitting beside mrs. hooper in the semicircle of the sheldonian theatre, drew the eyes of the crowd of graduates as they surged into the arena, and tantalised the undergraduates in the gallery, above the semicircle, who were well aware that the "star" was there, but could not see her. as the new doctors' procession entered through the lane made for it by the bedells, as the whole assembly rose, and as the organ struck up, amid the clapping and shouting of the gods in the gallery, connie and the grey-haired ambassador, who was walking second in the red and yellow line, grinned openly at each other, while the ex-viceroy in front, who had been agreeably flattered by the effect produced by his girl-cousin in the august circles of the day before, nodded and smiled at the young lady in the white plumes and pale mauve dress. "do you know my cousin, lady constance bledlow?--the girl in mauve there?" he said, complacently in the ear of the public orator, as they stood waiting till the mingled din from the organ and the undergraduates' gallery overhead should subside sufficiently to allow that official to begin his arduous task of introducing the doctors-elect. the public orator, in a panic lest one of the latin puns in his forthcoming address should escape him, said hurriedly--"yes!"--and then "no"--being quite uncertain to which girl in mauve the great man referred, and far too nervous to find out. the great man smiled, and looked up blandly at the shrieking gallery overhead, wondering--as all persons in his position do wonder in each succeeding generation--whether the undergraduates were allowed to make quite such an infernal noise when he was "up." meanwhile, constance herself was only conscious of one face and figure in the crowded theatre. falloden had borrowed a master's gown, and as the general throng closed up behind the doctors' procession, he took up a position in the rear, just in front of the great doors under the organ loft, which, as the day was very hot, remained unclosed. his dark head and athlete's figure, scarcely disguised by the ampler folds of the borrowed gown, showed in picturesque relief against the grey and sunlit background of the beautiful divinity school, which could be seen through the doorway. constance knew that his eyes were on her; and she guessed that he was only conscious of her, as she at that moment was only conscious of him. and again that tremor, that premonition of some coming attack upon her will which she half dreaded, and half desired, swept over her. what was there in the grave and slightly frowning face that drew her through all repulsion? she studied it. surely the brow and eyes were beautiful--shaped for high thought, and generous feeling? it was the disdainful sulky mouth, the haughty carriage of the head, that spoilt a noble aspect. yet she had seen the mouth quiver into softness; and those broad shoulders had once stood between her and danger--possibly death. her heart trembled. "what do you want of me?" it was asking--helplessly--of the distant man; "and can i--dare i--give it?" then her thoughts flew onward to the ball of the evening, for it was the night of the marmion ball. no more escape! if she went--and nothing should prevent her from going--it would be falloden's evening, falloden's chance. she had been perfectly conscious of evading and thwarting him during the previous week. there had been some girlish mischief, but more excitement in it. now, would he take his revenge? her heart beat fast. she had never yet danced with him. to-night she would feel his arm round her in the convention of the waltz. and she knew that for her it would be no convention; but something either to be passionately accepted--or impatiently endured. * * * * * oxford went early to the marmion ball. it was a very popular gathering. so that before ten o'clock the green quadrangle was crowded with guests waiting to see other guests come in; while the lights from the gothic hall, and the notes of the "blue danube," then in its first prime, flung out their call to youth and sex. in they thronged--young men and maidens--a gay procession through the lawns and quadrangles, feeling the world born anew for them, and for them only, as their fathers and mothers had felt before them. falloden and meyrick, with half a dozen other chosen spirits, met constance at the entrance and while mrs. hooper and alice followed, pleased against their will by the reflected fame which had fallen upon them also, the young men formed a body-guard round constance, and escorted her like a queen to the hall. sorell, eagerly waiting, watched her entrance into the beautiful and spacious room, with its throng of dancers. she came in, radiant, with that aureole of popular favour floating round her, which has so much to do with the loveliness of the young. all the world smiled on her; she smiled in return; and that sarcastic self behind the smile, which nora's quick sense was so often conscious of, seemed to have vanished. she carried, sorell saw, a glorious bunch of pale roses. were they falloden's gift? that douglas falloden danced with her repeatedly, that they sat out together through most of the supper-dances, that there was a sheltered corner in the illuminated quad, beside the græco-roman fountain which an archæological warden had given to the college, where, involuntarily, his troubled eyes discovered them more than once:--this at least sorell knew, and could not help knowing. he saw that she danced twice with radowitz, and that falloden stood meanwhile in the doorway of the hall, twisting his black moustache, and chaffing meyrick, yet all the time with an eye on the ballroom. and during one long disappearance, he found himself guessing that falloden had taken her to the library for greater seclusion. only a very few people seemed to know that the fine old room was open. "where is connie?" said poor mrs. hooper fretfully--when three o'clock had long struck. "i can't keep awake!" * * * * * and now a midsummer sun was rising over oxford. the last carriage had rumbled through the streets; the last merry group of black-coated men, and girls in thin shoes and opera-cloaks had vanished. the summer dawn held the whole beautiful and silenced city in its peace. constance, in her dressing-gown, sat at the open window, looking out over the dewy garden, and vaguely conscious of its scents as one final touch of sweetness in a whole of pleasure which was still sending its thrill through all her pulses. at last, she found pen and paper on her writing-table, and wrote an instruction for annette upon it. * * * * * "please send early for the horses. they should be here at a quarter to nine. call me at eight. tell aunt ellen that i have gone for a ride, and shall be back by eleven. it was quite a nice ball." * * * * * then, with a silent laugh at the last words, she took the sheet of paper, stole noiselessly out of her room, and up the stairs to annette's room, where she pushed the message under the door. annette had not been well the day before, and connie had peremptorily forbidden her to sit up. chapter ix the day was still young in lathom woods. a wood-cutter engaged in cutting coppice on the wood's eastern skirts, hearing deep muffled sounds from "tom" clock-tower, borne to him from oxford on the light easterly breeze, stopped to count the strokes. ten o'clock. he straightened himself, wiped the sweat from his brow, and was immediately aware of certain other sounds approaching from the wood itself. horses--at a walk. no doubt the same gentleman and lady who had passed him an hour earlier, going in a contrary direction. he watched them as they passed him again, repeating his reflection that they were a "fine-lookin' couple"--no doubt sweethearts. what else should bring a young man and a young woman riding in lathom woods at that time in the morning? "never seed 'em doin' it before, anyways." connie threw the old man a gracious "good morning!"--to which he guardedly responded, looking full at her, as he stood leaning on his axe. "i wonder what the old fellow is thinking about us!" she said lightly, when they had moved forward. then she flushed, conscious that the remark had been ill-advised. falloden, who was sitting erect and rather sombre, his reins lying loosely on his horse's neck, said slowly-- "he is probably thinking all sorts of foolish things, which aren't true. i wish they were." connie's eyes were shining with a suppressed excitement. "he supposes at any rate we have had a good time, and in fact--we haven't. is that what you mean?" "if you like to put it so." "and we haven't had a good time, because--unfortunately--we've quarrelled!" "i should describe it differently. there are certain proofs and tests of friendship that any friend may ask for. but when they are all refused--" "friendship itself is strained!" laughed constance, looking round at her companion. she was breathing quickly. "in other words, we have been quarrelling--about radowitz--and there seems no way of making it up." "you have only to promise me the very little thing i asked," said falloden stiffly. "that i shouldn't dance with him to-night, or again this week? you call that a little thing?" "i should have thought it a small thing, compared--" he turned and faced her. his dark eyes were full of proud agitation--of things unspoken. but she met them undaunted. "compared to--friendship?" he was silent, but his eyes held her. "well then"--said constance--"let me repeat that--in my opinion, friendship which asks unreasonable things--is not friendship--but tyranny!" she drew herself up passionately, and gave a smart touch with her whip to the mare's flank, who bounded forward, and had to be checked by falloden's hand on her bridle. "don't get run away with, while you are denouncing me!" he said, smiling, as they pulled up. "i really didn't want any help!" said constance, panting. "i could have stopped her quite easily." "i doubt it. she is really not the lamb you think her!" "nor is her mistress: i return the remark." "which has no point. because only a mad-man--" "could have dreamed of comparing me--to anything soft and docile?" laughed constance. there was another silence. before them at the end of a long green vista the gate opening on the main road could be seen. constance broke it. "wounded pride, and stubborn will were hot within her. "well, it is a great pity we should have been sparring like this. i can't remember who began it. but now i suppose i may do what i like with the dances i promised you?" "i keep no one to their word who means to break it," said falloden coldly. constance grew suddenly white. "that"--she said quietly--"was unpardonable!" "it was. i retract it." "no. you have said it--which means that you could think it. that decides it." they rode on in silence. as they neared the gate, constance, whose face showed agitation and distress, said abruptly-- "of course i know i must seem very ungrateful--" a sound, half bitter, half scornful from falloden stopped her. she threw her head back defiantly. "all the same i could be grateful enough, in my own way, if you would let me. but what you don't understand is that men can't lord it over women now as they used to do. you say--you"--she stammered a little--"you love me. i don't know yet--what i feel. i feel many different things. but i know this: a man who forbids me to do this and that--to talk to this person--or dance with some one else--a man who does not trust and believe in me--if i were ever so much in love with him, i would not marry him! i should feel myself a coward and a slave!" "one is always told"--said falloden hoarsely--"that love makes it easy to grant even the most difficult things. and i have begged the merest trifle." "'begged'?" said constance, raising her eyebrows. "you issued a decree. i am not to dance with radowitz--and i am not to see so much of mr. sorell--if i am to keep your--friendship. i demurred. you repeated it--as though you were responsible for what i do, and had a right to command me. well, that does not suit me. i am perfectly free, and i have given you no right to arrange my life for me. so now let us understand each other." falloden shrugged his shoulders. "you have indeed made it perfectly plain!" "i meant to," said constance vehemently. but they could not keep their eyes from each other. both were pale. in both the impulse to throw away pride and hold out a hand of yielding was all but strong enough to end their quarrel. both suffered, and if the truth were told, both were standing much deeper than before in the midstream of passion. but neither spoke another word--till the gate was reached. falloden opened it, and backed his horse out of connie's way. in the road outside, at a little distance, the groom was waiting. "good-bye," said falloden, with ceremonious politeness. "i wish i had not spoilt your ride. please do not give up riding in the woods, because you might be burdened with my company. i shall never intrude upon you. all the woodmen and keepers have been informed that you have full permission. the family will be all away till the autumn. but the woodmen will look after you, and give you no trouble." "thank you!" said constance, lightly, staying the mare for a moment. "but surely some of the rides will be wanted directly for the pheasants? anyway i think i shall try the other side of oxford. they say bagley is delightful. good-bye!" she passed through, made a signal to joseph, and was soon trotting fast towards oxford. * * * * * on that return ride, constance could not conceal from herself that she was unhappy. her lips quivered, her eyes had much ado to keep back the onset of tears--now that there was no falloden to see her, or provoke her. how brightly their ride had begun!--how miserably it had ended! she thought of that first exhilaration; the early sun upon the wood; the dewy scents of moss and tree; falloden's face of greeting--"how can you look so fresh! you can't have slept more than four hours--and here you are! wonderful! 'did ever dian so become a grove'--" an ominous quotation, if she had only remembered at the time where it came from! for really his ways were those of a modern petruchio--ways that no girl of any decent spirit could endure. yet how frank and charming had been his talk as they rode into the wood!--talk of his immediate plans, which he seemed to lay at her feet, asking for her sympathy and counsel; of his father and his two sisters; of the hoopers even. about them, his new tone was no doubt a trifle patronising, but still, quite tolerable. ewen hooper, he vowed, was "a magnificent scholar," and it was too bad that oxford had found nothing better for him than "a scrubby readership." but "some day, of course, he'll have the regius professorship." nora was "a plucky little thing--though she hates me!" and he, falloden, was not so sure after all that miss alice would not land her pryce. "can't we bring it about?" and falloden ran, laughing, through a catalogue of his own smart or powerful relations, speculating what could be done. it was true, wasn't it, that pryce was anxious to turn his back on oxford and the higher mathematics, and to try his luck in journalism, or politics? well, falloden happened to know that an attractive post in the conservative central office would soon be vacant; an uncle of his was a very important person on the council; that and other wires might be pulled. constance, eagerly, began to count up her own opportunities of the same kind; and between them, they had soon--in imagination--captured the post. then, said falloden, it would be for constance to clinch the matter. no man could do such a thing decently. pryce would have to be told--"'the world's your oyster--but before you open it, you will kindly go and propose to my cousin!--which of course you ought to have done months ago!'" and so laughing and plotting like a couple of children they had gone rambling through the green rides and glades of the wood, occasionally putting their horses to the gallop, that the pulse of life might run still faster. but a later topic of conversation had brought them into even closer contact. connie spoke of her proposed visit to her aunts. falloden, radiant, could not conceal his delight. "you will be only five miles from us. of course you must come and stay at flood! my mother writes they have collected a jolly party for the th. i will tell her to write to you at once. you must come! you must! will you promise?" and constance, wondering at her own docility, had practically promised. "i want you to know my people--i want you to know my father!" and as he plunged again into talk about his father, the egotistical man of fashion disappeared; she seemed at last to have reached something sincere and soft, and true. and then--what had begun the jarring? was it--first--her account of her greek lessons with sorell? before she knew what had happened, the brow beside her had clouded, the voice had changed. why did she see so much of sorell? he, like radowitz, was a _poseur_--a wind-bag. that was what made the attraction between them. if she wished to learn greek-- "let me teach you!" and he had bent forward, with his most brilliant and imperious look, his hand upon her reins. but constance, surprised and ruffled, had protested that sorell had been her mother's dear friend, and was now her own. she could not and would not give up her lessons. why indeed should she? "because friends"--falloden had laid a passionate emphasis on the word--"must have some regard--surely--to each other's likes and dislikes. if you have an enemy, tell me--he or she shall be mine--instantly! sorell dislikes me. you will never hear any good of me from him. and, of course, radowitz hates me. i have given him good cause. promise--at least--that you will not dance with radowitz again. you don't know what i suffered last night. he has the antics of a monkey!" whereupon the quarrel between them had broken like thunder, constance denouncing the arrogance and unkindness that could ask such promises of her; falloden steadily, and with increasing bitterness, pressing his demand. and so to the last scene between them, at the gate. was it a breach?--or would it all be made up that very night at the magdalen ball? no!--it was and should be a breach! constance fought back her tears, and rode proudly home. * * * * * "what are you going to wear to-night?" said nora, putting her head in at constance's door. constance was lying down by annette's strict command, in preparation for her second ball, which was being given by magdalen, where the college was reported to have surpassed itself in the lavishness of all the preparations made for lighting up its beautiful walks and quadrangles. constance pointed languidly to the sofa, where a creation in white silk and tulle, just arrived from london, had been laid out by the reverential hands of annette. "why on earth does one go to balls?" said constance, gloomily pressing both hands upon a pair of aching temples. nora shut the door behind her, and came to the side of the bed. "it's time to dress," she said firmly. "alice says you had a _succès fou_ last night." "go away, and don't talk nonsense!" constance turned on her side, and shut her eyes. "oh, alice hadn't a bad time either!" said nora, complacently, sitting on the bed. "herbert pryce seems to have behaved quite decently. shall i tell you something?" the laughing girl stooped over connie, and said in her ear--"now that herbert knows it would be no good proposing to you, he thinks it might be a useful thing to have you for a relation." "don't be horrid!" said constance. "if i were alice--" "you'd punch my head?" nora laughed. "all very well. but alice doesn't much care why herbert pryce marries her, so long as he does marry her." constance did not reply. she continued to feign a headache. but all the time she was thinking of the scene in the wood that morning, when she and falloden had--to amuse themselves--plotted the rise in life, and the matrimonial happiness, of herbert and alice. how little they had cared for what they talked about! they talked only that they might laugh together--hear each other's voices, look into each other's eyes-- "where did you ride this morning?" said nora suddenly. "somewhere out towards godstowe," said constance vaguely. "i saw mr. falloden riding down the high this morning, when i was on the way to the bodleian. he just looks splendid on horseback--i must give him that. why doesn't he ride with you sometimes, as he chose your horse?" "i understand the whole of oxford would have a fit if a girl went out riding with an undergraduate," said constance, her voice muffled in the pillow. then, after a moment she sprang up, and began to brush her hair. "mr. falloden's not an undergraduate now. he can do what he likes," said nora. constance made no reply. nora observed her with a pair of shrewd brown eyes. "there are two bouquets for you downstairs," she said abruptly. constance turned round startled, almost hidden by the thick veil of her brown hair. "who's sent them?" "one comes from mr. radowitz--a beauty. the other's from lord meyrick. isn't he a jolly boy?" constance turned back to the dressing-table, disappointed. she had half expected another name. and yet she would have felt insulted if falloden had dared to send her flowers that evening, without a word of apology--of regret for their happy hour, spoilt by his absurd demands. "well, i can't carry them both; and one will be offended." "oh, you must take radowitz's!" cried nora. "just to show that you stand by him. mr. sorell says everybody likes him in college--except mr. falloden's horrid set, who think themselves the lords of creation. they say that otto radowitz made such an amusing speech last week in the college debating society attacking 'the bloods.' of course they didn't hear it, because they have their own club, and turn up their nose at the college society. but it's going to be printed somewhere, and then it'll make them still more furious with him. they'll certainly pay him out some time." "all right," said constance, who had suddenly recovered colour and vivacity. "i'll take mr. radowitz's bouquet." "then, of course, lord meyrick will feel snubbed. serve him right! he shouldn't be so absurdly fond of mr. falloden!" nora was quite aware that she might be provoking constance. she did it with her eyes open. her curiosity and concern after what alice had told her of the preceding night's ball were becoming hard to conceal. would connie really engage herself to that horrid man? but no rise could be got out of constance. she said nothing. annette appeared, and the important business of hair-dressing went forward. nora, however, had yet another fly to throw. "alice passed mr. falloden on the river this afternoon--he was with the mansons, and another lady, an awfully pretty person. mr. falloden was teaching her to row. nobody knew who she was. but she and he seemed great friends. alice saw them also walking about together at iffley, while the others were having tea." "indeed?" said constance. "annette, i think i'll wear my black after all--the black tulle, and my pearls." annette unwillingly hung up the "creation." "you'd have looked a dream in it, my lady. why ever won't you wear it?" but constance was obstinate. and very soon she stood robed in clouds of black tulle and jet, from which her delicate neck and arms, and her golden-brown head stood out with brilliant effect. nora, still sitting on the bed, admired her hugely. "she'll look like that when she's married," she thought, by which she meant that the black had added a certain proud--even a sombre--stateliness to connie's good looks. "now my pearls, annette." "won't you have some flowers, my lady?" "no. not one. only my pearls." annette brought them, from the locked dressing-case under her own bed where she jealously kept them. they were famous pearls and many of them. one string was presently wound in and out through the coils of hair that crowned the girl's delicate head; the other string coiled twice round her neck and hung loose over the black dress. they were her only ornament of any kind, but they were superb. connie looked at herself uneasily in the glass. "i suppose i oughtn't to wear them," she said doubtfully. "why?" said nora, staring with all her eyes. "they're lovely!" "i suppose girls oughtn't to wear such things. i--i never have worn them, since--mamma's death." "they belonged to her?" "of course. and to papa's mother. she bought them in rome. it was said they belonged to marie antoinette. papa always believed they were looted at the sack of the tuileries in the revolution." nora sat stupefied. how strange that a girl like connie should possess such things!--and others, nothing! "are they worth a great deal of money?" "oh, yes, thousands," said connie, still looking at herself, in mingled vanity and discomfort. "that's why i oughtn't to wear them. but i shall wear them!" she straightened her tall figure imperiously. "after all they were mamma's. i didn't give them myself." * * * * * popular as the marmion ball had been, the magdalen ball on the following night was really the event of the week. the beauty of its cloistered quadrangle, its river walks, its president's garden, could not be rivalled elsewhere; and magdalen men were both rich and lavish, so that the illuminations easily surpassed the more frugal efforts of other colleges. the midsummer weather still held out, and for all the young creatures, plain and pretty, in their best dancing frocks, whom their brothers and cousins and friends were entertaining, this particular ball struck the top note of the week's romance. "who is that girl in black!" said his partner to douglas falloden, as they paused to take breath after the first round of waltzing. "and--good heavens, what pearls! oh, they must be sham. who is she?" falloden looked round, while fanning his partner. but there was no need to look. from the moment she entered the room, he had been aware of every movement of the girl in black. "i suppose you mean lady constance bledlow." the lady beside him raised her eyebrows in excited surprise. "then they're not sham! but how ridiculous that an unmarried girl should wear them! yes they are--the risborough pearls! i saw them once, before i married, on lady risborough, at a gorgeous party at the palazzo farnese. well, i hope that girl's got a trustworthy maid!" "i dare say lady constance values them most because they belonged to her mother!" said falloden drily. the lady sitting beside him laughed, and tapped him on the arm. "sentimentalist! don't you know that girls nowadays--babes in the schoolroom--know the value of everything? who is she staying with?" falloden briefly explained and tried to change the subject. but mrs. glendower could not be persuaded to leave it. she was one of the reigning beauties of the moment, well acquainted with the falloden family, and accustomed since his eton days to lay violent hands on douglas whenever they met. she and her husband had lately agreed to live apart, and she was now pursuing amusement wherever it was to be had. a certain magdalen athlete was at the moment her particular friend, and she had brought down a sister to keep her in countenance. she had no intention, indeed, of making scandal, and douglas falloden was a convenient string to her bow. falloden was quite aware of the situation. but it suited him to dance with mrs. glendower, and to dance with her a great deal. he and constance exchanged greetings; he went through the form of asking her to dance, knowing very well that she would refuse him; and then, for the rest of the evening, when he was not dancing with mrs. glendower, he was standing about, "giving himself airs," as alice repeated to her mother, and keeping a sombre watch on constance. "my dear--what has happened to connie!" said mrs. hooper to alice in bewilderment. lord meyrick had just good-naturedly taken aunt ellen into supper, brought her back to the ballroom, and bowed himself off, bursting with conscious virtue, and saying to himself that constance bledlow must now give him at least two more dances. mrs. hooper had found alice sitting solitary, and rather drooping. nobody had offered her supper; herbert pryce was not at the ball; her other friends had not showed her any particular attention, and her prettiness had dribbled away, like a bright colour washed out by rain. her mother could not bear to see her--and then to look at connie across the room, surrounded by all those silly young men, and wearing the astonishing jewels that were the talk of the ball, and had only been revealed to mrs. hooper's bewildered gaze, when the girl threw off her wraps in the cloak-room. alice answered her mother's question with an irritable shake of the head, meant to indicate that connie was nothing to her. whereupon mrs. hooper settled herself carefully in the chair which she meant to keep for the rest of the evening, smoothing the bright folds of the new dress over her knee. she was much pleased with the new dress; and, of course, it would be paid for some time. but she was almost forgetting it in the excitement of connie's behaviour. "she has never danced once with mr. falloden!" she whispered in alice's ear. "it has been all mr. radowitz. and the talk!" she threw up her hands maliciously. "it's the way they dance--that makes people talk!" said alice. "as for mr. falloden--perhaps she's found out what a horrid creature he is." the band struck up. it was a mazurka with a swinging tune. radowitz opposite sprang to his feet, with a boyish gesture of delight. "come!" he said to constance; and they took the floor. supper had thinned the hall, and the dancers who stood in the doorways and along the walls involuntarily paused to watch the pair. falloden and mrs. glendower had just returned from supper. they too stood among the spectators. the dance they watched was the very embodiment of youth, and youth's delight in itself. constance knew, besides, that falloden was looking on, and the knowledge gave a deeper colour to her cheek, a touch of wildness to her perfect grace of limb and movement. radowitz danced the polish dance with a number of steps and gestures unknown to an english ballroom, as he had learnt them in his childhood from a polish dancing-mistress; constance, with the instinct of her foreign training, adapted herself to him, and the result was enchanting. the slim girl in black, and the handsome youth, his golden hair standing up straight, _en brosse_, round his open brow and laughing eyes, seemed, as dancers, made for each other. they were absorbed in the poetry of concerted movement, the rhythm of lilting sound. "mountebank!" said falloden to meyrick, contemptuously, as the couple passed. radowitz saw his enemy, and though he could not hear what was said, was sure that it was something insulting. he drew himself up, and as he passed on with constance he flung a look of mingled triumph and defiance at the group of "bloods" standing together, at falloden in particular. falloden had not danced once with her, had not been allowed once to touch her white hand. it was he, radowitz, who had carried her off--whom she had chosen--whom she had honoured. the boy's heart swelled with joy and pride; the artist in him, of another race than ours, realising and sharpening the situation, beyond the english measure. and, afterwards, he danced with her again--many times. moreover with him and an escort of his friends--for in general the young pole with his musical gift and his romantic temperament was popular in oxford--constance made the round of the illuminated river-walks and the gleaming cloisters, moving like a goddess among the bevy of youths who hung upon her smiles. the intoxication of it banished thought and silenced regret. but it was plain to all the world, no less than to mrs. hooper, that falloden of marmion, who had seemed to be in possession of her the night before, had been brusquely banished from her side; that oxford's charming newcomer had put her supposed suitor to open contumely; and that young radowitz reigned in his stead. * * * * * radowitz walked home in a whirl of sensations and recollections that made of the oxford streets an "insubstantial fairy place," where only constance lived. he entered marmion about four o'clock in a pearly light of dawn. impossible to go to bed or to sleep! he would change his clothes, go out for a bathe, and walk up into the cumnor hills. in the quadrangle he passed a group of men in evening dress returned like himself from the ball. they were talking loudly, and reading something which was being passed from hand to hand. as he approached, there was a sudden dead silence. but in his abstraction and excitement he noticed nothing. when he had vanished within the doorway of his staircase, meyrick, who had had a great deal too much champagne, said fiercely-- "i vote we give that young beggar a lesson! i still owe him one for that business of a month ago." "when he very nearly settled you, jim," laughed a wykehamist, a powerfully built fellow, who had just got his blue for the eleven, had been supping freely and was in a mood for any riotous deed. "that was nothing," said meyrick--"but this can't be stood!" and he pointed to the sheet that falloden, who was standing in the centre of the group, was at the moment reading. it was the latest number of an oxford magazine, one of those _éphémérides_ which are born, and flutter, and vanish with each oxford generation. it contained a verbatim report of the attack on the marmion "bloods" made by radowitz at the dinner of the college debating society about a fortnight earlier. it was witty and damaging in the highest degree, and each man as he read it had vowed vengeance. falloden had been especially mocked in it. some pompous tricks of manner peculiar to falloden in his insolent moods, had been worked into a pseudo-scientific examination of the qualities proper to a "blood," with the happiest effect. falloden grew white as he read it. perhaps on the morrow it would be in constance bledlow's hands. the galling memories of the evening just over were burning too in his veins. that open humiliation in the sight of oxford had been her answer to his prayer--his appeal. had she not given him a right to make the appeal? what girl could give two such rendezvous to a man, and not admit some right on his part to advise, to influence her? it was monstrous she should have turned upon him so! and as for this puppy!-- a sudden gust of passion, of hot and murderous wrath, different from anything he had ever felt before, blew fiercely through the man's soul. he wanted to crush--to punish--to humiliate. for a moment he saw red. then he heard meyrick say excitedly: "this is our last chance! let's cool his head for him--in neptune." neptune was the græco-roman fountain in the inner quad, which a former warden had presented to the college. the sea god with his trident, surrounded by a group of rather dilapidated nymphs, presided over a broad basin, filled with running water and a multitude of goldfish. there was a shout of laughing assent, and a rush across the grass to radowitz's staircase. college was nearly empty; the senior tutor had gone to switzerland that morning; and those few inmates who still remained, tired out with the ball of the night before, were fast asleep. the night porter, having let everybody in and closed the gate, was dozing in his lodge. there was a short silence in the quadrangle. then the rioters who had been for a few minutes swallowed up in a distant staircase on the western side of the quadrangle reëmerged, with muffled shouts and laughter, bringing their prey with them--a pale, excited figure. "let me alone, you cowardly bullies!--ten of you against one!" but they hurried him along, radowitz fighting all the way, and too proud to call for help. the intention of his captors--of all save one--was mere rowdy mischief. to duck the offender and his immaculate white flannels in neptune, and then scatter to their beds before any one could recognise or report them, was all they meant to do. but when they reached the fountain, radowitz, whose passion gave him considerable physical strength, disengaged himself, by a sudden effort, from his two keepers, and leaping into the basin of the fountain, he wrenched a rickety leaden shell from the hand of one of neptune's attendant nymphs and began to fling the water in the faces of his tormentors. falloden was quickly drenched, and meyrick and others momentarily blinded by the sudden deluge in their eyes. robertson, the winchester blue, was heavily struck. in a wild rage he jumped into the fountain and closed with radowitz. the pole had no chance against him, and after a short struggle, radowitz fell heavily, catching in his fall at a piece of rusty piping, part of some disused machinery of the fountain. there was a cry. in a moment it sobered the excited group of men. falloden, who had acted as leader throughout, called peremptorily to robertson. "is he hurt? let him up at once." robertson in dismay stooped over the prostrate form of radowitz, and carried him to the edge of the fountain. there it was seen that the lad had fainted, and that blood was streaming from his right hand. "he's cut it on that beastly piping--it's all jagged," gasped robertson. "i say, can anybody stop the bleeding?" one desmond, an etonian who had seen one or two football accidents, knelt down, deadly pale, by radowitz and rendered a rough first-aid. by a tourniquet of handkerchiefs he succeeded in checking the bleeding. but it was evident that an artery was injured. "go for a doctor," said falloden to meyrick, pointing to the lodge. "tell the porter that somebody's been hurt in a lark. you'll probably find a cab outside. we'll carry him up." in a few minutes they had laid the blood-stained and unconscious radowitz on his bed, and were trying in hideous anxiety to bring him round. the moment when he first opened his eyes was one of unspeakable relief to the men who in every phase of terror and remorse were gathered round him. but the eyelids soon fell again. "you'd better go, you fellows," said falloden, looking round him. "robertson and i and desmond will see the doctor." the others stole away. and the three men kept their vigil. the broad-shouldered wykehamist, utterly unnerved, sat by the bed trembling from head to foot. desmond kept watch over the tourniquet. falloden stood a little apart, in a dead silence, his eyes wandering occasionally from the figure on the bed to the open window, through which could be seen the summer sky, and a mounting sun, just touching the college roofs. the college clock struck half past four. not two hours since radowitz and constance bledlow had held the eyes of oxford in the magdalen ballroom. chapter x radowitz woke up the following morning, after the effects of the dose of morphia administered by the surgeon who had dressed his hand had worn off, in a state of complete bewilderment. what had happened to him? why was he lying in this strange, stiff position, propped up with pillows? he moved a little. a sharp pain wrung a groan from him. then he perceived his bandaged hand and arm; and the occurrences of the preceding night began to rush back upon him. he had soon reconstructed them all; up to the moment of his jumping into the fountain. after that he remembered nothing. he had hurt himself somehow in the row, that was clear. a sudden terror ran through him. "it's my right hand!--good god! if i lost my hand!--if i couldn't play again!" he opened his eyes, trembling, and saw his little college room; his clothes hanging on the door, the photographs of his father and mother, of chopin and wagner on the chest of drawers. the familiar sight reassured him at once, and his natural buoyancy of spirit began to assert itself. "i suppose they got a doctor. i seem to remember somebody coming. bah, it'll be all right directly. i heal like a baby. i wonder who else was hurt. who's that? come in!" the door opened, and his scout looked in cautiously. "thought i heard you moving, sir. may the doctor come in?" the young surgeon appeared who had been violently rung up by meyrick some five hours earlier. he had a trim, confident air, and pleasant eyes. his name was fanning. "well, how are you? had some sleep? you gave yourself an uncommonly nasty wound. i had to set a small bone, and put in two or three stitches. but i don't think you knew much about it." "i don't now," said radowitz vaguely. "how did i do it?" "there seems to have been a 'rag' and you struck your hand against some broken tubing. but nobody was able to give a clear account." the doctor eyed him discreetly, having no mind to be more mixed up in the affair than was necessary. "who sent for you?" "lord meyrick rang me up, and when i got here i found mr. falloden and mr. robertson. they had done what they could." the colour rushed back into the boy's pale cheeks. "i remember now," he said fiercely. "damn them!" the surgeon made no reply. he looked carefully at the bandage, asked if he could ease it at all--took pulse and temperature, and sat some time in silence, apparently thinking, by the bed. then rising, he said: "i shan't disturb the dressing unless it pains you. if it does, your scout can send a message to the surgery. you must stay in bed--you've got a little fever. take light food--i'll tell your scout all about that--and i'll come in again to-night." he departed. the scout brought warm water and a clean sheet. radowitz was soon washed and straightened as well as masculine fingers could achieve it. "you seem to have lost a lot of blood, sir, last night!" said the man involuntarily, as he became aware in some dismay of the white flannels and other clothes that radowitz had been wearing when the invaders broke into his room, which were now lying in a corner, where the doctor had thrown them. "that's why i feel so limp!" said radowitz, shutting his eyes again. "please get me some tea, and send a message round to st. cyprian's--to mr. sorell--that i want to see him as soon as he can come." the door closed on the scout. left alone radowitz plunged into a tumult of feverish thought. he seemed to be standing again, just freshly dressed, beside his bed--to hear the noise on the stairs, the rush into his sitting-room. falloden, of course, was the leader--insolent brute! the lad, quivering once more with rage and humiliation, seemed to feel again falloden's iron grip upon his shoulders--to remember the indignity of his forced descent into the quad--the laughter of his captors. then he recollected throwing the water--and robertson's spring upon him-- if _she_ had seen it! whereupon, a new set of images displaced the first. he was in the ballroom again, he had her hand in his; her charming face with its small features and its beautiful eyes was turned to him. how they danced, and how deliriously the music ran! and there was falloden in the doorway, with his dark face,--looking on. the rag on his part, had been mere revenge; not for the speech, but for the ball. was she in love with him? impossible! how could such a hard, proud being attract her? if she did marry him he would crush and wither her. yet of course girls did do--every day--such idiotic things. and he thought uncomfortably of a look he had surprised in her face, as he and she were sitting in the new quad under the trees and falloden passed with a handsome dark lady--one of the london visitors. it had been something involuntary--a flash from the girl's inmost self. it had chilled and checked him as he sat by her. yet the next dance had driven all recollection of it away. "she can't ever care for me," he thought despairingly. "i know that. i'm not her equal. i should be a fool to dream of it. but if she's going to throw herself away--to break her heart for that fellow--it's--it's devilish! why aren't we in paris--or warsaw--where i could call him out?" he tossed about in pain and fever, irritably deciding that his bandage hurt him, and he must recall the doctor, when he heard sorell's voice at the door. it quieted him at once. "come in!" sorell came in with a scared face. "my dear boy--what's the matter?" "oh, there was a bit of a row last night. we were larking round the fountain, trying to push each other in, and i cut my hand on one of those rotten old pipes. beastly luck! but fanning's done everything. i shall be all right directly. there's a little bone broken." "a bone broken!--your hand!" ejaculated sorell, who sat down and looked at him in dismay. "yes--i wish it had been my foot! but it doesn't matter. that kind of thing gets well quickly, doesn't it?" he eyed his visitor anxiously. "you see i never was really ill in my life." "well, we can't run any risks about it," said sorell decidedly. "i shall go and see fanning. if there's any doubt about it, i shall carry you up to london, and get one of the crack surgeons to come and look at it. what was the row about?" radowitz's eyes contracted so that sorell could make nothing out of them. "i really can't remember," said the lad's weary voice. "there's been a lot of rowing lately." "who made the row?" "what's the good of asking questions?" the speaker turned irritably away. "i've had such a lot of beastly dreams all night, i can't tell what happened, and what didn't happen. it was just a jolly row, that's all i know." sorell perceived that for some reason radowitz was not going to tell him the story. but he was confident that douglas falloden had been at the bottom of it, and he felt a fierce indignation. he had however to keep it to himself, as it was clear that questions excited and annoyed the patient. he sat by the boy a little, observing him. then he suggested that bateson the scout and he should push the bed into the sitting-room, for greater air and space. radowitz hesitated, and then consented. sorell went out to speak to bateson. "all right, sir," said the scout. "i've just about got the room straight; but i had to get another man to help me. they must have gone on something fearful. there wasn't an article in the room that wasn't knocked about." "who did it?" said sorell shortly. the scout looked embarrassed. "well, of course, sir, i don't know for certain. i wasn't there to see. but i do hear mr. falloden, and lord meyrick, and mr. robertson were in it--and there were some other gentlemen besides. there's been a deal of ragging in this college lately, sir. i do think, sir, as the fellows should stop it." sorell agreed, and went off to the surgery, thinking furiously. suppose the boy's hand--and his fine talent--had been permanently injured by that arrogant bully, falloden, and his set! and constance bledlow had been entangling herself with him--in spite of what anybody could say! he thought with disgust of the scenes of the marmion ball, of the reckless way in which constance had encouraged falloden's pursuit of her, of the talk of oxford. his work with the greats' papers had kept him away from the magdalen ball, and he had heard nothing of it. no doubt that foolish child had behaved in the same way there. he was thankful he had not been there to see. but he vowed to himself that he would find out the facts of the attack on radowitz, and that she should know them. yet the whole thing was very surprising. he had seen on various occasions that falloden was jealous of connie's liking for radowitz, of the boy's homage, and of connie's admiration for his musical gift. but after the marmion night, and the triumph she had so unwisely given the fellow--to behave in this abominable way! there couldn't be a spark of decent feeling in his composition. * * * * * radowitz lay still--thinking always of falloden, and lady constance. another knock at his door--very timid and hesitating. radowitz said "come in." the door opened partially, and a curly head was thrust in. another head appeared behind it. "may we come in?" said a muffled voice. "it's meyrick--and robertson." "i don't care if you do," said radowitz coldly. "what do you want?" the two men came in, stepping softly. one was fair and broad-shouldered. the other exceedingly dark and broad-shouldered. each was a splendid specimen of the university athlete. and two more sheepish and hang-dog individuals it would have been difficult to find. "we've come to apologise," said meyrick, standing by the bed, his hands in his pockets, looking down on radowitz. "we didn't mean to hurt you of course, and we're awfully sorry--aren't we, robertson?" robertson, sheltering behind meyrick, murmured a deep-voiced assent. "if we hadn't been beastly drunk we should never have done it," said meyrick; "but that's no excuse. how are you? what does fanning say?" they both looked so exceedingly miserable that radowitz, surveying them with mollified astonishment, suddenly went into a fit of hysterical laughter. the others watched him in alarm. "do sit down, you fellows!--and don't bother!" said radowitz, as soon as he could speak. "i gave it to you both as hard as i could in my speech. and you hit back. we're quits. shake hands." and he held out his left hand, which each of them gingerly shook. then they both sat down, extremely embarrassed, and not knowing what to say or do next, except that meyrick again enquired as to fanning's opinion. "let's have some swell down," said meyrick urgently. "we could get him in a jiffy." but radowitz impatiently dismissed the subject. sorell, he said, had gone to see fanning, and it would be all right. at the same time it was evident through the disjointed conversation which followed that he was suffering great pain. he was alternately flushed and deadly pale, and could not occasionally restrain a groan which scared his two companions. at last they got up to go, to the relief of all three. meyrick said awkwardly: "falloden's awfully sorry too. he would have come with us--but he thought perhaps you wouldn't want him." "no, i don't want him!" said radowitz vehemently. "that's another business altogether." meyrick hummed and hawed, fidgeting from one foot to the other. "it was i started the beastly thing," he said at last. "it wasn't falloden at all." "he could have stopped it," said radowitz shortly. "and you can't deny he led it. there's a long score between him and me. well, never mind, i shan't say anything. and nobody else need. good-bye." a slight ghostly smile appeared in the lad's charming eyes as he raised them to the pair, again holding out his free hand. they went away feeling, as meyrick put it, "pretty beastly." * * * * * by the afternoon various things had happened. falloden, who had not got to bed till six, woke towards noon from a heavy sleep in his beaumont street "diggings," and recollecting in a flash all that had happened, sprang up and opened his sitting-room door. meyrick was sitting on the sofa, fidgeting with a newspaper. "well, how is he?" meyrick reported that the latest news from marmion was that sorell and fanning between them had decided to take radowitz up to town that afternoon--for the opinion of sir horley wood, the great surgeon. "have you seen sorell?" "yes. but he would hardly speak to me. he said we'd perhaps spoilt his life." "whose?" "radowitz's." falloden's expression stiffened. "that's nonsense. if he's properly treated, he'll get all right. besides it was a pure accident. how could any of us know those broken pipes were there?" "well, i shall be glad when we get wood's opinion," said meyrick gloomily. "it does seem hard lines on a fellow who plays that it should have been his hand. but of course--as you say, duggy--it'll probably be all right. by the way, sorell told me radowitz had absolutely refused to let anybody in college know--any of the dons--and had forbidden sorell himself to say a word." "well of course that's more damaging to us than any other line of action," said falloden drily. "i don't know that i shall accept it--for myself. the facts had better be known." "well, you'd better think of the rest of us," said meyrick. "it would hit robertson uncommonly hard if he were sent down. if radowitz is badly hurt, and the story gets out, they won't play him for the eleven--" "if he's badly hurt, it will get out," said falloden coolly. "well, let it alone, anyway, till we see." falloden nodded--"barring a private friend or two. well, i must dress." when he opened the door again, meyrick was gone. in an unbearable fit of restlessness, falloden went out, passed marmion, looked into the quad which was absolutely silent and deserted, and found his way aimlessly to the parks. he must see constance bledlow, somehow, before the story reached her from other sources, and before everybody separated for the vac. a large nuneham party had been arranged by the mansons for the following day in honour of the ex-ambassador and his wife, who were prolonging their stay in christ church so as to enjoy the river and an oxford without crowds or functions. falloden was invited, and he knew that constance had been asked. in his bitterness of the day before, after their quarrel in the wood, he had said to himself that he would certainly go down before the party. now he thought he would stay. suddenly, as he was walking back along the cherwell edge of the park, under a grey sky with threatening clouds, he became aware of a lady in front of him. annoying or remorseful thought became in a moment excitement. it was impossible to mistake the springing step and tall slenderness of constance bledlow. he rapidly weighed the pros and cons of overtaking her. it was most unlikely that she had yet heard of the accident. and yet she might have seen sorell. he made up his mind and quickened his pace. she heard the steps behind her and involuntarily looked round. he saw, with a passionate delight, that she could not immediately hide the agitation with which she recognised him. "whither away?" he said as he took off his hat. "were you up as late as i? and are balls worth their headaches?" she was clearly surprised by the ease and gaiety of his manner, and at the same time--he thought--inclined to resent his interruption of her walk, before she had made up her mind in what mood, or with what aspect to meet him next. but he gave her no time for further pondering. he walked beside her, while she coldly explained that she had taken nora to meet some girl friends at the cherwell boat-house, and was now hurrying back herself to pay some calls with her aunt in the afternoon. "what a week you have had!" he said when she paused. "is there anything left of you? i saw that you stayed very late last night." she admitted it. "as for me, of course, i thought the ball--intolerable. but that of course you know--you must know!" he added with a sudden vehement emphasis. "may i not even say that you intended it? you meant to scourge me, and you succeeded." constance laughed, though he perceived that her lip trembled a little. "the scourging had, i think--compensations." "you mean i took refuge with mrs. glendower? yes, she was kind--and useful. she is an old friend--more of the family than mine. she is coming to stay at flood in august." "indeed?" the tone was as cool as his own. there was a moment's pause. then falloden turned another face upon her. "lady constance!--i have something rather serious and painful to tell you--and i am glad of this opportunity to tell you before you hear it from any one else. there was a row in college last night, or rather this morning, after the ball, and otto radowitz was hurt." the colour rushed into connie's face. she stopped. all around them the park stretched, grey and empty. there was no one in sight on the path where they had met. "but not seriously," she breathed. "his hand was hurt in the scuffle!" constance gave a cry. "his hand!" "yes. i knew you'd feel that. it was a horrible shame--and a pure accident. but you'd better know the whole truth. it was a rag, and i was in it. but, of course, nobody had the smallest intention of hurting radowitz." "no--only of persecuting and humiliating him!" cried constance, her eyes filling with tears. "his hand!--oh, how horrible! if it were really injured, if it hindered his music--if it stopped it--it would just kill him!" "very likely it is only a simple injury which will quickly heal," said falloden coldly. "sorell has taken him up to town this afternoon to see the best man he can get. we shall know to-morrow, but there is really no reason to expect anything--dreadful." "how did it happen?" "we tried to duck him in neptune--the college fountain. there was a tussle, and his hand was cut by a bit of broken piping. you perhaps don't know that he made a speech last week, attacking several of us in a very offensive way. the men in college got hold of it last night. a man who does that kind of thing runs risks." "he was only defending himself!" cried constance. "he has been ragged, and bullied, and ill-treated--again and again--just because he is a foreigner and unlike the rest of you. and you have been the worst of any--you know you have! and i have begged you to let him alone! and if--if you had really been my friend--you would have done it--only to please me!" "i happened to be more than your friend!"--said falloden passionately. "now let me speak out! you danced with radowitz last night, dance after dance--so that it was the excitement, the event of the ball--and you did it deliberately to show me that i was nothing to you--nothing!--and he, at any rate, was something. well!--i began to see red. you forget--that"--he spoke with difficulty--"my temperament is not exactly saintly. you have had warning, i think, of that often. when i got back to college, i found a group of men in the quad reading the skit in _the new oxonian_. suddenly radowitz came in upon us. i confess i lost my head. oh, yes, i could have stopped it easily. on the contrary, i led it. but i must ask you--because i have so much at stake!--was i alone to blame?--was there not some excuse?--had you no part in it?" he stood over her, a splendid accusing figure, and the excited girl beside him was bewildered by the adroitness with which he had carried the war into her own country. "how mean!--how ungenerous!" her agitation would hardly let her speak coherently. "when we were riding, you ordered me--yes, it was practically that!--you warned me, in a manner that nobody--_nobody_ --has any right to use with me--unless he were my fiancé or my husband--that i was not to dance with otto radowitz--i was not to see so much of mr. sorell. so just to show you that i was really not at your beck and call--that you could not do exactly what you liked with me--i danced with mr. radowitz last night, and i refused to dance with you. oh, yes, i know i was foolish--i daresay i was in a temper too--but how you can make that any excuse for your attack on that poor boy--how you can make me responsible, if--" her voice failed her. but falloden saw that he had won some advantage, and he pushed on. "i only want to point out that a man is not exactly a stock or a stone to be played with as you played with me last night. those things are dangerous! can you deny--that you have given me some reason to hope--since we met again--to hope confidently, that you might change your mind? would you have let me arrange those rides for you--unknown to your friends--would you have met me in the woods, those heavenly times--would you have danced with me as you did--would you have let me pay you in public every sort of attention that a man can pay to a girl, when he wants to marry her, the night of the marmion ball--if you had not felt something for me--if you had not meant to give me a little hope--to keep the thing at least uncertain? no!--if this business does turn out badly, i shall have remorse enough, god knows--but you can't escape! if you punish me for it, if i alone am to pay the penalty, it will be not only radowitz that has a grievance--not only radowitz whose life will have been spoilt!" she turned to him--hypnotised, subdued, by the note of fierce accusation--by that self-pity of the egotist--which looked out upon her from the young man's pale face and tense bearing. "no"--she said trembling--"no--it is quite true--i have treated you badly. i have behaved wilfully and foolishly. but that was no reason--no excuse--" "what's the good of talking of 'reason'--or excuse'?" falloden interrupted violently. "do you understand that i am in love with you--and what that means to a man? i tore myself away from oxford, because i knew that if i stayed another day within reach of you--after that first ride--i should lose my class--disappoint my father--and injure my career. i could think of nothing but you--dream of nothing but you. and i said to myself that my success--my career--might after all be your affair as well as mine. and so i went. and i'm not going to boast of what it cost me to go, knowing that other people would be seeing you--influencing you--perhaps setting you against me--all the time i was away. but then when i came back, i couldn't understand you. you avoided me. it was nothing but check after check--which you seemed to enjoy inflicting. at last, on the night of our ball i seemed to see clear. on that night, i did think--yes, i did think, that i was something to you!--that you could not have been so sweet--so adorable--in the sight of the whole world--unless you had meant that--in time it would all come right. and so next day, on our ride, i took the tone i did. i was a fool; of course. all men are, when they strike too soon. but if you had had any real feeling in your heart for me--if you had cared one ten-thousandth part for me, as i care for you, you couldn't have treated me as you did last night--so outrageously--so cruelly!" the strong man beside her was now trembling from head to foot. constance, hard-pressed, conscience-struck, utterly miserable, did not know what to reply. falloden went on impetuously: "and now at least don't decide against me without thinking--without considering what i have been saying. of course the whole thing may blow over. radowitz may be all right in a fortnight. but if he is not--if between us, we've done something sad and terrible, let's stand together, for god's sake!--let's help each other. neither of us meant it. don't let's make everything worse by separating and stabbing each other. i shall hear what has happened by to-night. let me come and bring you the news. if there's no great harm done--why--you shall tell me what kind of letter to write to radowitz. i'm in your hands. but if it's bad--if there's blood-poisoning and radowitz loses his hand--that they say is the worst that can happen--i of course shall feel like hanging myself--everybody will, who was in the row. but next to him, to radowitz himself, whom should you pity more than--the man--who--was three parts to blame--for injuring him?" his hoarse voice dropped. they came simultaneously, involuntarily to a standstill. constance was shaken by alternate waves of feeling. half of what he said seemed to her insolent sophistry; but there was something else which touched--which paralysed her. for the first time she knew that this had been no mere game she had been playing with douglas falloden. just as falloden in his careless selfishness might prove to have broken otto radowitz's life, as a passionate child breaks a toy, so she had it in her power to break falloden. they had wandered down again, without knowing it, to the banks of the river, and were standing in the shelter of a group of young chestnuts, looking towards the hills, over which hung great thunder-clouds. at last constance held out her hand. "please go now," she said pleadingly. "send me word to-night. but don't come. let's hope. i--i can't say any more." and indeed he saw that she could bear no more. he hesitated--yielded--took her unresisting hand, which he pressed violently to his lips--and was gone. * * * * * hour after hour passed. falloden had employed meyrick as an intermediary with a great friend of sorell's, one benham, another fellow of st. cyprian's, who had--so meyrick reported--helped sorell to get radowitz to the station in time for the two o'clock train to london. the plan, according to benham, was to go straight to sir horley wood, who had been telegraphed to in the morning, and had made an appointment for . . benham was to hear the result of the great surgeon's examination as soon as possible, and hoped to let meyrick have it somewhere between seven and eight. four or five other men, who had been concerned in the row, including desmond and robertson, hung about college, miserably waiting. falloden and meyrick ordered horses and went off into the country, hardly speaking to each other during the whole of the ride. they returned to their beaumont street lodgings about seven, and after a sombre dinner meyrick went out to go and enquire at st. cyprian's. he had scarcely gone when the last oxford post arrived, and a letter was brought up for falloden. it was addressed in his father's hand-writing. he opened it mechanically; and in his preoccupation, he read it several times before he grasped his meaning. * * * * * "my dear son,"--wrote sir arthur falloden--"we expected you home early this week, for you do not seem to have told us that you were staying up for commem. in any case, please come home at once. there are some very grave matters about which i must consult with you, and which will i fear greatly affect your future. you will find me in great trouble, and far from well. your poor mother means very kindly, but she can't advise me. i have long dreaded the explanations which can not now be avoided. the family situation has been going from bad to worse,--and i have said nothing--hoping always to find some way out. but now it is precisely my fear that--if we can't discover it--you will find yourself, without preparation, ruined on the threshold of life, which drives me to tell you everything. your head is a cleverer one than mine. you may think of something. it is of course the coal-mining that has come to grief, and dragged in all the rest. i have been breaking down with anxiety. and you, my poor boy!--i remember you said when we met last, that you hoped to marry soon--perhaps this year--and go into parliament. i am afraid all that is at an end, unless you can find a girl with money, which of course you ought to have no difficulty in doing, with your advantages. "but it is no good writing. come to-morrow, and wire your train. "your loving father, arthur falloden." "'ruined on the threshold of life'--what does he mean?"--thought falloden impatiently. "father always likes booky phrases like that. i suppose he's been dropping a thousand or two as he did last year--hullo!" as he stood by the window, he perceived the hoopers' parlourmaid coming up beaumont street and looking at the numbers on the houses. he ran out to meet her, and took a note from her hand. "i will send or bring an answer. you needn't wait." he carried it into his own room, and locked the door before opening it. * * * * * "dear mr. falloden,--mr. sorell has just been here. he left mr. radowitz at a nursing home after seeing the surgeons. it is all terrible. the hand is badly poisoned. they hope they may save it, but the injuries will make it impossible for him ever to play again as he has done. he may use it again a little, he may compose of course, but as a performer it's all over. mr. sorell says he is in despair--and half mad. they will watch him very carefully at the home, lest he should do himself any mischief. mr. sorell goes back to him to-morrow. he is himself broken-hearted. "i am very, very sorry for you--and for lord meyrick,--and everybody. but i can't get over it--i can't ever forget it. there is a great deal in what you said this afternoon. i don't deny it. but, when it's all said, i feel i could never be happy with you; i should be always afraid of you--of your pride and your violence. and love mustn't be afraid. "this horrible thing seems to have opened my eyes. i am of course very unhappy. but i am going up to-morrow to see mr. radowitz, who has asked for me. i shall stay with my aunt, lady langmoor, and nurse him as much as they will let me. oh, and i must try and comfort him! his poor music!--it haunts me like something murdered. i could cry--and cry. "good night--and good-bye! "constance bledlow." the two notes fell at falloden's feet. he stood looking out into beaumont street. the long narrow street, which only two days before had been alive with the stream of commemoration, was quiet and deserted. a heavy thunder rain was just beginning to plash upon the pavements; and in the interval since he had taken the note from the maid's hand, it seemed to falloden that the night had fallen. part ii chapter xi "so, connie, you don't want to go out with me this afternoon?" said lady langmoor, bustling into the eaton square drawing-room, where connie sat writing a letter at a writing-table near the window, and occasionally raising her eyes to scan the street outside. "i'm afraid i can't, aunt sophia. you remember, i told you, mr. sorell was coming to fetch me." lady langmoor looked rather vague. she was busy putting on her white gloves, and inspecting the fit of her grey satin dress, as she saw it in the mirror over connie's head. "you mean--to see the young man who was hurt? dreadfully sad of course, and you know him well enough to go and see him in bed? oh, well, of course, girls do anything nowadays. it is very kind of you." connie laughed, but without irritation. during the week she had been staying in the langmoors' house, she had resigned herself to the fact that her aunt langmoor--as it seemed to her--was a very odd and hardly responsible creature, the motives of whose existence she did not even begin to understand. but both her aunt and lord langmoor had been very kind to their new-found niece. they had given a dinner-party and a tea-party in her honour; they had taken her to several crushes a night, and introduced her to a number of their own friends. and they would have moved heaven and earth to procure her an invitation to the court ball they themselves attended, on the day after connie's arrival, if only, as lady langmoor plaintively said--"your poor mother had done the right thing at the right time." by which she meant to express--without harshness towards the memory of lady risborough--how lamentable it was that, in addition to being christened, vaccinated and confirmed, constance had not also been "presented" at the proper moment. however constance probably enjoyed the evening of the court ball more than any other in the week, since she went to the italian embassy after dinner to help her girl friend, the daughter of italy's new prime minister, elisa bardinelli, to dress for the function; and the two girls were so enchanted to see each other, and had so much roman gossip to get through, that donna elisa was scandalously late, and the ambassador almost missed the royal procession. but that had been the only spot of pleasure in connie's fortnight. lady langmoor was puzzled by her pale looks and her evident lack of zest for the amusements offered her. she could only suppose that her niece was tired out with the balls of commem., and connie accepted the excuse gratefully. in reality she cared for nothing day after day but the little notes she got from sorell night and morning giving her news of radowitz. till now he had been too ill to see her. but at last the doctor had given leave for a visit, and as soon as lady langmoor had gone off on her usual afternoon round of concerts and teas, connie moved to the window, and waited for sorell. how long was it since she had first set foot in england and oxford? barely two months! and to constance it seemed as if these months had been merely an unconscious preparation for this state of oppression and distress in which she found herself. radowitz in his misery and pain--falloden on the cherwell path, defending himself by those passionate retorts upon her of which she could not but admit the partial justice--by these images she was perpetually haunted. certainly she had no reason to look back with pleasure or self-approval on her oxford experiences. in all her dealings with falloden she had behaved with a reckless folly of which she was now quite conscious; courting risks; in love with excitement rather than with the man; and careless whither the affair might lead, so long as it gratified her own romantic curiosities as to the power of woman over the masculine mind. then, suddenly, all this had become serious. she was like the playing child on whose hand the wasp sat down. but in this case the moral sting of what had happened was abidingly sharp and painful. the tragedy of radowitz, together with the charm interwoven with all her few recollections of him, had developed in connie feelings of unbearable pity and tenderness, altogether new to her. yet she was constantly thinking of falloden; building up her own harrowed vision of his remorse, or dreaming of the marmion ball, and the ride in the bluebell wood,--those two meetings in which alone she had felt happiness with him, something distinct from vanity, and a challenging love of power. now it was all over. they would probably not meet again, till he had forgotten her, and had married some one else. she was quite aware of his fixed and businesslike views for himself and his career--as to marriage, travel, parliament and the rest; and it had often pleased her wilfulness to think of modifying or upsetting them. she had now far more abundant proof of his haughty self-centredness than their first short acquaintance on the riviera had given her; and yet--though she tried to hide it from herself--she was far more deeply absorbed in the thought of him. when all was said, she knew that she had treated him badly. the effect of his violence and cruelty towards radowitz had been indeed to make her shudder away from him. it seemed to her still that it would be impossible to forgive herself should she ever make friends with douglas falloden again. she would be an accomplice in his hardness of heart and deed. yet she recognised guiltily her own share in that hardness. she had played with and goaded him; she had used radowitz to punish him; her championship of the boy had become in the end mere pique with falloden; and she was partly responsible for what had happened. she could not recall falloden's face and voice on their last walk without realising that she had hit him recklessly hard, and that her conduct to him had been one of the causes of the marmion tragedy. she was haunted by these thoughts, and miserable for lack of some comforting, guiding, and--if possible--absolving voice. she missed her mother childishly day and night, and all that premature self-possession and knowledge of the world, born of her cosmopolitan training, which at oxford had made her appear so much older than other english girls of twenty, seemed to have broken away, and left her face to face with feelings she could not check, and puzzles she wanted somebody else to judge. for instance--here was this coming visit to her aunts in yorkshire. their house in scarfedale was most uncomfortably near to flood castle. the boundaries of the falloden estate ran close to her aunts' village. she would run many chances of coming across douglas himself, however much she might try to avoid him. at the same time lady marcia wrote continually, describing the plans that were being made to entertain her--eager, affectionate letters, very welcome in spite of their oddity to the girl's sore and orphaned mood. no she really couldn't frame some clumsy excuse, and throw her aunts over. she must go, and trust to luck. and there would be sorell and otto to fall back upon--to take refuge with. sorell had told her that the little rectory on the moors, whither he and otto were bound as soon as the boy could be moved, stood somewhere about midway between her aunts' house and flood, on the scarfedale side of the range of moors girdling the flood castle valley. it was strange perhaps that she should be counting on sorell's neighbourhood. if she had often petulantly felt at oxford that he was too good, too high above her to be of much use to her, she might perhaps have felt it doubly now. for although in some undefined way, ever since the night of the vice-chancellor's party, she had realised in him a deep interest in her, even a sense of responsibility for her happiness, which made him more truly her guardian than poor harassed uncle ewen, she knew very well that she had disappointed him, and she smarted under it. she wanted to have it out with him, and didn't dare! as she listened indeed to his agitated report on radowitz's injuries, after the first verdict of the london surgeons, connie had been conscious of a kind of moral terror. in the ordinary man of the world, such an incident as the marmion ragging of a foreign lad, who had offended the prejudices of a few insolent and lordly englishmen, would have merely stirred a jest. in sorell it roused the same feelings that made him a lover of swinburne and shelley and the nobler byron; a devoted reader of everything relating to the italian risorgimento; and sent him down every long vacation to a london riverside parish to give some hidden service to those who were in his eyes the victims of an unjust social system. for him the quality of behaviour like falloden's towards otto radowitz was beyond argument. the tyrannical temper in things great or small, and quite independent of results, represented, for him, the worst treason that man can offer to man. in this case it had ended in hideous catastrophe to an innocent and delightful being, whom he loved. but it was not thereby any the worse; the vileness of it was only made manifest for all to see. this hidden passion in him, as he talked, seemed to lay a fiery hand on constance, she trembled under it, conscience-stricken. "does he see the same hateful thing in me?--though he never says a word to hurt me?--though he is so gentle and so courteous?" * * * * * a tall figure became visible at the end of the street. connie shut up her writing and ran upstairs to put on her things. when she came down, she found sorell waiting for her with a furrowed brow. "how is he?" she approached him anxiously. sorell's look changed and cleared. had she put on her white dress, had she made herself a vision of freshness and charm, for the poor boy's sake? he thought so; and his black eyes kindled. "better in some ways. he is hanging on your coming. but these are awfully bad times for the nurses--for all of us." "i may take him some roses?" she said humbly, pointing to a basket she had brought in with her. sorell smiled assent and took it from her. as they were speeding in a hansom towards the portland place region, he gave her an account of the doctors' latest opinion. it seemed that quite apart from the blood-poisoning, which would heal, the muscles and nerves of the hand were fatally injured. all hope of even a partial use of it was gone. "luckily he is not a poor man. he has some hundreds a year. but he had a great scheme, after he had got his oxford degree, of going to the new leschetizsky school in vienna for two years, and then of giving concerts in warsaw and cracow, in aid of the great polish museum now being formed at cracow. you know what a wild enthusiasm he has for polish history and antiquities. he believes his country will rise again, and it was his passion--his most cherished hope--to give his life and his gift to her. poor lad!" the tears stood in connie's eyes. "but he can still compose?" she urged piteously. sorell shrugged his shoulders. "yes, if he has the heart--and the health. i never took much account before of his delicacy. one can see, to look at him, that he's not robust. but somehow he was always so full of life that one never thought of illness in connection with him. but i had a long talk with one of the doctors last week, who takes rather a gloomy view. a shock like this sometimes lets loose all the germs of mischief in a man's constitution. and his mother was undoubtedly consumptive. well, we must do our best." he sighed. there was silence till they turned into wimpole street and were in sight of the nursing home. then connie said in a queer, strained voice: "you don't know that it was partly i who did it." sorell turned upon her with a sudden change of expression. it was as though she had said something he had long expected, and now that it was said a great barrier between them had broken down. he looked at her with shining eyes from which the veil of reserve had momentarily lifted. she saw in them both tenderness and sorrow. "i don't think you need feel that," he said gently. her lips trembled. she looked straight before her into the hot vista of the street. "i just played with him--with his whole future, as it's turned out--without a thought." sorell knew that she was thinking of the magdalen ball, of which he had by now heard several accounts. he guessed she meant that her provocation of falloden had contributed to the tragedy, and that the thought tormented her. but neither of them mentioned falloden's name. sorell put out his hand and grasped hers. "otto's only thought about you is that you gave him the happiest evening he ever spent in england," he said with energy. "you won't misunderstand." her eyes filled with tears. but there was no time to say more. the hansom drew up. [illustration: _connie sat down beside radowitz and they looked at each other in silence_] they found radowitz lying partly dressed on the balcony of his back room, which overlooked a tiny walled patch of grass and two plane-trees. the plane-tree seems to have been left in pity to london by some departing rural deity. it alone nourishes amid the wilderness of brick; and one can imagine it as feeling a positive satisfaction, a quiet triumph, in the absence of its stronger rivals, oak and beech and ash, like some gentle human life escaped from the tyrannies of competition. these two great trees were the guardian genii of poor otto's afternoons. they brought him shade and coolness, even in the hottest hours of a burning june. connie sat down beside him, and they looked at each other in silence. sorell, after a few gay words, had left them together. radowitz held her hand in his own left. the other was bandaged and supported on a pillow. "when she got used to the golden light filtering through the plane leaves, she saw that he was pale and shrunken, that his eyes were more living and blue than ever, and his hair more like the burnished halo of some florentine or siennese saint. yet the whole aspect was of something stricken. she felt a foreboding, a terror, of which she knew she must let nothing appear. "do you mind my staring?" he said presently, with his half-sad, half-mischievous smile. "you are so nice to look at." she tried to laugh. "i put on my best frock. do you like it?" "for me?" he said, wondering. "and you brought me these roses?" he lifted some out of the basket, looked at them, then let them drop listlessly on his knee. "i am afraid i don't care for such things, as i used to do. before--this happened, i had a language of my own, in which i could express everything--as artists or poets can. now--i am struck dumb. there is something crying in me--that can find no voice. and when one can't express, one begins not to feel!" she had to check the recurring tears before she could reply. "but you can still compose?" her tone, in repeating the same words she had used to sorell, fell into the same pleading note. he shook his head, almost with irritation. "it was out of the instrument--out of improvisation--that all my composing grew. do you remember the tale they tell of george sand, how when she began a novel, she made a few dots and scratches on a sheet of paper, and as she played with them they ran into words, and then into sentences--that suggested ideas--and so, in half an hour, she had sketched a plot, and was ready to go to work? so it was with me. as i played, the ideas came. i am not one of your scientific musicians who can build up everything _in vacuo_. i must translate everything into sound--through my fingers. it was the same with chopin." he pointed to a life of chopin that was lying open on the couch beside him. "but you will do wonders with your left hand. and your right will perhaps improve. the doctors mayn't know," she pleaded, catching at straws. "dear otto--don't despair!" he flushed and smiled. his uninjured hand slipped back into hers again. "i like you to call me otto. how dear that was of you! may i call you constance?" she nodded. there was a sob in her throat that would not let her speak. "i don't despair--now," he said, after a moment. "i did at first. i wanted to put an end to myself. but, of course, it was sorell who saved me. if my mother had lived, she could not have done more." he turned away his face so that constance should not see it. when he looked at her again, he was quite calm and smiling. "do you know who come to see me almost every day?" "tell me." "meyrick--lord meyrick, and robertson. perhaps you don't know him. he's a winchester man, a splendid cricketer. it was robertson i was struggling with when i fell. how could he know i should hurt myself? it wasn't his fault and he gave up his 'choice' for the oxford eleven. they put him in at the last moment. but he wouldn't play. i didn't know till afterwards. i told him he was a great fool." there was a pause. then connie said--with difficulty--"did--did mr. falloden write? has he said anything?" "oh yes, he sent a message. after all, when you run over a dog, you send a message, don't you?" said the lad with sudden bitterness. "and i believe he wrote a letter--after i came here. but i didn't open it. i gave it to sorell." then he raised himself on his pillows and looked keenly at connie. "you see the others didn't mean any harm. they were drunk, and it was a row. but falloden wasn't drunk--and he did mean--" "oh, not to hurt you so?" cried connie involuntarily. "no--but to humble and trample on me," said the youth with vehemence, his pale cheeks flaming. "he knew quite well what he was about. i felt that when they came into my room. he is cruel--he has the temper of the torturer--in cold blood--" a shudder of rage went through him. his excitable slav nature brought everything back to him--as ugly and as real as when it happened. "oh, no--no!" said constance, putting her hand over her eyes. radowitz controlled himself at once. "i won't say any more," he said in a low voice, breathing deep--"i won't say any more." but a minute afterwards he looked up again, his brow contracting--"only, for god's sake, don't marry him!" "don't be afraid," said constance. "i shall never marry him!" he looked at her piteously. "only--if you care for him--what then? you are not to be unhappy!--you are to be the happiest person in the world. if you did care for him--i should have to see some good in him--and that would be awful. it is not because he did me an injury, you understand. the other two are my friends--they will be always my friends. but there is something in falloden's soul that i hate--that i would like to fight--till either he drops or i. it is the same sort of feeling i have towards those who have killed my country." he lay frowning, his blue eyes sombrely fixed and strained. "but now"--he drew himself sharply together--"you must talk of something else, and i will be quite quiet. tell me where you have been--what you have seen--the theatre--the opera--everything!" she did her best, seeing already the anxious face of the nurse in the window behind. and as she got up to go, she said, "i shall come again very soon. and when you go to yorkshire, i shall see you perhaps every day." he looked up in astonishment and delight, and she explained that at scarfedale manor, her aunts' old house, she would be only two or three miles from the high moorland vicarage whither he was soon to be moved. "that will do more for me than doctors!" said radowitz with decision. yet almost before she had reached the window opening on the balcony, his pain, mental and physical, had clutched him again. he did not look up as she waved farewell; and sorell hurried her away. thenceforward she saw him almost every day, to lady langmoor's astonishment. sorell too, and his relation to connie, puzzled her greatly. connie assured her with smiles that she was not in love with the handsome young don, and never thought of flirting with him. "he was mother's friend, aunt sophia," she would say, as though that settled the matter entirely. but lady langmoor could not see that it settled it at all. mr. sorell could not be much over thirty--the best time of all for falling in love. and here was connie going to pictures with him, and the british museum, and to visit the poor fellow in the nursing home. it was true that the aunt could never detect the smallest sign of love-making between them. and connie was always putting forward that mr. sorell taught her greek. as if that kind of thing wasn't one of the best and oldest gambits in the great game of matrimony! lady langmoor would have felt it her solemn duty to snub the young man had it been at all possible. but it was really not possible to snub any one possessed of such a courteous self-forgetting dignity. and he came of a good anglo-irish family too. lady langmoor had soon discovered that she knew some of his relations, and placed him socially to a t. but, of course, any notion of his marrying connie, with her money, her rank, and her good looks, would be simply ridiculous, so ridiculous that lady langmoor soon ceased to think about it, accepted his visits, and began to like him on her own account. * * * * * one evening towards the end of the first week in july, a hansom drew up before a house in portman square. douglas falloden emerged from it, as the door was opened by a maidservant. the house, which had been occupied at the beginning of the season by the family, was given over now to a charwoman and a couple of housemaids, the senior of whom looked a little scared at the prospect of having to wait on the magnificent gentleman who had just entered the house. in general, when mr. douglas came up to town in the absence of his family, he put up at his own very expensive club, and the servants in portman square were not troubled with him. but they, like every one else, knew that something was going wrong with the fallodens. falloden walked into the deserted and dust-sheeted house, while the cabman brought in his portmanteau. "is mr. gregory here?" he enquired of the maid. "yes, sir, he is in the library. please, sir, mrs. o'connor wants to know if you'll want dinner." falloden impatiently said "no," and walked on down a long passage to the library, which had been built out at the back of the house. here the blinds had been drawn up, only to reveal the dusty desolation of an unused room, in which a few chairs had been uncovered, and a table cleared. a man rose from a chair beside the table, and he and falloden shook hands. he was a round-faced and broad-shouldered person, with one of the unreadable faces developed by the life of a prominent solicitor, in contact with all sorts of clients and many varieties of business; and falloden's sensitive pride had soon detected in his manner certain shades of expression to which the heir of flood castle was not accustomed. "i am sorry to hear sir arthur is not well." mr. gregory spoke politely, but perhaps without that accent of grave and even tragic concern which six months earlier he would have given to the same words. "there is a great deal of heavy, and, i am afraid, disagreeable business to be done." "my father is not fit for it," said falloden abruptly. "i must do the best i can." mr. gregory gave a sign of assent. he drew a packet of documents from his pocket, and spreading out a letter from sir arthur falloden on the table, proceeded to deal with the points in it seriatim. falloden sat beside him, looking carefully through the various documents handed to him, asking questions occasionally, and making notes of his own. in the dusty northern light of the room, his face had a curiously purple and congested look; and his eyes were dead tired. but he showed so much shrewdness in his various remarks that the solicitor secretly admitted his capacity, reflecting indeed once or twice that, young as he was, it would have been a good thing if his father had taken him into counsel earlier. after the discussion had lasted half an hour, falloden pushed the papers away. "i think i see. the broad facts are that my father can raise no more money, either on his securities, or on the land; his two banks are pressing him; and the scotch mortgages must be paid. the estates, of course, will have to be sold. i am quite willing." "so i understand. but it will take time and the bank overdrafts are urgent. mason's bank declare that if their debt is not paid--or freshly secured--within a month from now, they will certainly take proceedings. i must remind you they have been exceedingly forbearing." "and the amount?" falloden consulted his papers. "forty thousand. the securities on which sir arthur obtained it are now not worth more than eight." the lawyer paused a moment, looked at his companion, and at last said-- "there are, of course, your own expectations from lord dagnall. i do not know whether you and your father have considered them. but i imagine it would be possible to raise money on them." falloden laughed. the sound was a mixture of irritation and contempt. "uncommonly little! the fact is my uncle--at seventy-two--is philandering with a lady-housekeeper he set up a year ago. she seems to be bent on netting him, and my father thinks she'll do it. if she does, my uncle will probably find himself with an heir of his own. anyway the value of my prospects is enormously less than it was. all the neighbours are perfectly aware of what is going on. oh, i suppose he'll leave me something--enough to keep me out of the workhouse. but there's nothing to be got out of it now." there was another silence. falloden pondered the figures before him. "there are always the pictures," he said at last, looking up. the lawyer's face lightened. "if you and sir arthur will sell! but as you know they are heirlooms, and you could stop it." "on the contrary, i am ready to agree to it," said falloden briefly. "but there will be a lot of legal business, won't there?" "certainly. but it can all be put through in time. and directly it was known that you would sell, the whole situation would be changed." "we might save something out of the wreck?" said falloden, looking up. the lawyer nodded gravely. "something--certainly." "what are they worth?" said falloden, taking a note-book from his pocket, and looking at a list scribbled on its first page. mr. gregory laughed. "there is no market in the ordinary sense for such pictures as yours. there are only half a dozen millionaires in the world who could buy them--and one or two museums." he paused a moment, looking thoughtfully at the young man before him. "there happens, however,"--he spoke slowly--"to be a buyer at this moment in london, whom it would be difficult to beat--in the matter of millions." he mentioned the name. "not an american? well, send him along." falloden raised his eyebrows. "if my father doesn't feel able to see him, i can tackle him. he can choose his own day and hour. all our best pictures are at flood." "and they include--" "four rembrandts," said falloden, looking at his list, "two titians, two terburgs, a vermeer of delft, heaps of other dutchmen--four full-length gainsboroughs, and three half-lengths--two full-length reynoldses, three smaller--three lawrences, a splendid romney, three hoppners, two constables, etc. the foreign pictures were bought by my grandfather from one of the orléans collections about . the english pictures--the portraits--have all been at flood since they were painted, and very few of them have ever been exhibited. i scribbled these few facts down before i left home. there is, of course, an elaborate catalogue." for the first time the lawyer's countenance as he listened showed a flash of active sympathy. he was himself a modest collector, and his house at richmond contained a number of pretty things. "sir arthur will mind parting with them very much, i fear," he said with real concern. "i wish with all my heart it had been possible to find some other way out. but we have really done our best." falloden nodded. he sat looking straight before him, one hand drumming on the table. the whole attitude was haughtily irresponsive. the slight note of compassion in mr. gregory's tone was almost intolerable to him, and the lawyer guessed it. "insolent cub!" he thought to himself; and thenceforward allowed himself no departure from a purely business tone. it was settled that the buyer--with legal caution, mr. gregory for the moment threw no further light upon him--was, if possible, to be got hold of at once, and an appointment was to be made for flood castle, where falloden, or his father, would receive him. then the solicitor departed, and falloden was left to pace up and down the dismal room, his hands in his pockets--deep in thought. he looked back upon a fortnight of unbroken worry and distress. the news with which his father had received him on his return from oxford had seemed to him at first incredible. but the facts on which it was based were only too substantial, and his father, broken in health and nerve, now that silence was once thrown aside, poured out upon his son a flood of revelation and confession that soon made what had happened tragically clear. it was the familiar story of wealth grasping at yet more wealth, of the man whose judgment and common sense begin to play him false, when once the intoxication of money has gone beyond a certain point. dazzled by some first speculative successes, sir arthur had become before long a gambler over half the world, in canada, the states, egypt, argentina. one doubtful venture supported another, and the city, no less than the gambler himself, was for a time taken in. but the downfall of a great egyptian company, which was to have extracted untold wealth from a strip of libyan desert, had gradually but surely brought down everything else in its train. blow after blow fell, sometimes rapidly, sometimes tardily. sir arthur tried every expedient known to the financier _in extremis_, descending ever lower in the scale of credit and reputation; and in vain. one tragic day in june, after a long morning with the gregory partners, sir arthur came home to the splendid house in yorkshire, knowing that nothing now remained but to sell the estates, and tell douglas that his father had ruined him. lady laura's settlement was safe; and on that they must live. the days of slow realisation, after douglas's return, had tried both father and son severely. sir arthur was worn out and demoralised by long months of colossal but useless effort to retrieve what he had done. falloden, with his own remorse, and his own catastrophe to think over, was called on to put it aside, to think for and help his father. he had no moral equipment--no trained character--equal to the task. but mercifully for them both, his pride came into play; his shrewd intelligence also, and his affection for his father--the most penetrable spot so far in his hard and splendid youth. he had done his best--a haughty, ungracious best--but still he had done it, and in the course of a few days, now that the tension of concealment was over, sir arthur had become almost childishly dependent upon him. a church clock struck somewhere in the distance. falloden looked at his watch. time to go to some restaurant and dine. with gregory's figures running in his head, he shrank from his club where he would be sure to meet a host of harrow and oxford acquaintance, up for the varsity match, and the latter end of the season. after dinner he would look into a music-hall, and about eleven make his way to the tamworth house ball. he must come back, however, to portman square sometime to dress. lady tamworth had let it be known privately that the prince and princess were coming to her ball, and that the men were expected to appear in knee-breeches and silk stockings. he had told his valet at flood to pack them; and he supposed that fool of a housemaid would be equal to unpacking for him, and putting out his things. * * * * * "how do you do, douglas?" said lady tamworth, an imposing, bejewelled figure standing at the head of the galleried staircase of tamworth house. "saw your father yesterday and thought him looking very seedy." "yes, he's not the thing," said douglas. "we shall have to get him away to marienbad, or somewhere of that kind." lady tamworth looked at him closely, her eyelids fluttering just a little. douglas noticed the flutter, and knew very well what it meant. lady tamworth and his father were first cousins. no doubt all their relations were busy discussing their affairs day and night; the city, he knew, was full of rumours, and certain newspapers had already scented the quarry ahead, and were beginning to make ghoulish hints and gibberings. as he passed on into the ballroom, every nerve in him was sensitive and alive. he seemed to have eyes at the back of his head, to catch everywhere the sudden attention, the looks of curiosity, sometimes of malice, that followed him through the crowd. he spoke to a great many acquaintance, to girls he had been accustomed to dance with and their mothers. the girls welcomed him just as usual; but the casual or interrupted conversation, which was all the mothers could spare him, showed him very soon how much was known or guessed, of the family disasters. he understood that he was no longer in the running for these exquisite creatures in their silks and satins. the campaigning mothers had already dropped him out of their lists. his pride recoiled in self-contempt from its own smart. but he had been accustomed to walk this world as one of its princelings, and indifference to what it might think of him was not immediately attainable. all the same, he was still handsome, distinguished, and well born. no one could overlook him in a ballroom, and few women could be quite indifferent to his approach. he danced as much as he wished, and with the prettiest girls. his eyes meanwhile were always wandering over the crowd, searching in vain for a delicate face, and a wealth of brown hair. yet she had told him herself that lady langmoor was to bring her to this ball. he only wanted to see her--from a distance--not to speak to her--or be spoken to. "douglas," said a laughing voice in his ear--"will you dance the royal quadrille with me? something's happened to my partner. mother sent me to ask you." he turned and saw the youngest daughter of the house, lady alice, with whom he had always been on chaffing, cousinly terms; and as she spoke a sudden stir and hush in the room showed that the royal party had arrived, and were being received in the hall below. falloden's first irritable instinct was to refuse. why should he go out of his way to make himself a show for all these eyes? then a secret excitement--an expectation--awoke in him, and he nodded a laughing comment to lady alice, who just stayed to throw him a mocking compliment on his knee-breeches, and ran away. immediately afterwards, the royal party came through the lane made for them, shaking hands with their acquaintance, and bowing right and left. as they disappeared into the room beyond, which had been reserved for them, the crowd closed up behind them. falloden heard a voice at his elbow. "how are you? i hear you're to be in the quadrille. you'll have the pretty lady we saw at oxford for a colleague." he turned to see mrs. glendower, very much made-up and glittering with diamonds. her face seemed to him to have grown harder and plainer, her smile more brazen since their oxford meeting. but she filled up time agreeably till the quadrille was ready. she helped him to pin on the small rosette made of the tamworth colours which marked all the dancers in the royal quadrille, and she told him that constance bledlow was to dance it with the tamworths' eldest son, lord bletchley. "there's a great deal of talk about her, as perhaps you know. she's very much admired. the langmoors are making a great fuss about her, and people say she'll have all their money as well as her own some day--not to speak of the old aunts in yorkshire. i shouldn't wonder if the tamworths had their eye upon her. they're not really well off." falloden gaily declared that he would back his cousin mary tamworth to get anything she wanted. mrs. glendower threw him a sudden, sharp look. then she was swept into the crowd. a couple of men in brilliant uniform came by, clearing a space in the centre of the room, and falloden saw lady alice beckoning. in another minute or two he and she were in their places, and what the newspapers who record these things call "a brilliant scene" was in full tide:--the prince and princess dancing with the master and mistress of the house, and the rest of the quadrille made up of the tallest men and handsomest women that lady tamworth, with a proper respect both to rank and to looks, had been able to collect. the six-foot-three falloden and his fairylike partner were much observed, and lady alice bubbling over with fun and spirits, found her cousin douglas, whom in general she disliked, far better company than usual. as for him, he was only really conscious of one face and form in the stately dance itself, or in the glittering crowd which was eagerly looking on. constance bledlow, in filmy white, was his _vis-à-vis_. he saw her quick movement as she perceived him. then she bowed slightly, he ceremoniously. their hands touched at intervals, and not a few of the spectators noticed these momentary contacts with a thrill of pleasure--the splendid physique of the young man, the flowerlike grace of the girl. once or twice, as they stood together in the centre of the "chain," a few words would have been possible. but constance never spoke, nor did falloden. he had thought her very pale at first sight. but her cheek flushed with dancing; and with every minute that passed she seemed to him more lovely and more remote, like a spirit from another world, into which he could not pass. "isn't she pretty!--connie bledlow?" said lady alice enthusiastically. "she's having a great success. of course other people are much handsomer, but there's something--" yes, there was something!--and something which, like an exquisite fluttering bird, had just escaped from douglas falloden, and would now, he supposed, forever escape him. when the quadrille was over he watched her delicate whiteness disappear amid the uniforms, the jewels, and the festoons or roses hanging across the ballroom. the barbaric, overdecorated scene, with all its suggestions of a luxurious and self-confident world, where every one was rich and privileged, or hunting riches and privilege--a world without the smallest foreboding of change, the smallest doubt of its own right to exist--forced upon him by contrast the recollection of the hour he had just spent with mr. gregory in his father's dusty dismantled library. he and his were, it seemed, "ruined"--as many people here already guessed. he looked at the full-length van dycks on the wall of the tamworths' ballroom, and thought, not without a grim leap of humour, that he would be acting showman and auctioneer, within a few days perhaps, to his father's possessions of the same kind. but it was not the loss of money or power that was separating him from constance bledlow. he knew her well enough by now to guess that in spite of her youth and her luxurious bringing up, there was that in her which was rapidly shaping a character capable of fighting circumstance, as her heart might bid. if she loved a man she would stand by him. no, it was something known only to her and himself in all those crowded rooms. as soon as he set eyes on her, the vision of radowitz's bleeding hand and prostrate form had emerged in consciousness--a haunting presence, blurring the many-coloured movements of the ballroom. and yet it was not that maimed hand, either, which stood between himself and constance. it was rather the spiritual fact behind the visible--that instinct of fierce, tyrannical cruelty which he had felt as he laid his hands on radowitz in the oxford dawn a month ago. he shrank from it now as he thought of it. it blackened and degraded his own image of himself. he remembered something like it years before, when he had joined in the bullying of a small boy at school--a boy who yet afterwards had become his good friend. if there is such a thing as "possession," devilish possession, he had pleaded it on both occasions. would it, however, have seemed of any great importance to him now, but for constance bledlow's horror-struck recoil? all men of strong and vehement temperament--so his own defence might have run--are liable to such gusts of violent, even murderous feeling; and women accept it. but constance bledlow, influenced, no doubt, by a pale-blooded sentimentalist like sorell, had refused to accept it. "i should be always afraid of you--of your pride and your violence--and love mustn't be afraid. good-bye!" he tried to scoff, but the words had burnt into his heart. chapter xii it was in the early morning, a few days after her arrival at scarfedale manor, the house of her two maiden aunts, that connie, while all the scarfedale household was still asleep, took pen and paper and began a letter to nora hooper. on the evening before connie left oxford there had been a long and intimate scene between these two. constance, motherless and sisterless, and with no woman friend to turn to more understanding than annette, had been surprised in passionate weeping by nora, the night after the marmion catastrophe. the tact and devotion of the younger girl had been equal to the situation. she humbly admired connie, and yet was directly conscious of a strength in herself, in which connie was perhaps lacking, and which might be useful to her brilliant cousin. at any rate on this occasion she showed so much sweetness, such power, beyond her years, of comforting and understanding, that connie told her everything, and thenceforward possessed a sister and a confidante. the letter ran as follows:-- * * * * * "dearest nora,--i have only been at scarfedale manor a week, and already i seem to have been living here for months. it is a dear old house, very like the houses one used to draw when one was four years old--a doorway in the middle, with a nice semicircular top, and three windows on either side; two stories above with seven windows each, and a pretty dormered roof, with twisted brick chimneys, and a rookery behind it; also a walled garden, and a green oval grass-plot between it and the road. it seems to me that everywhere you go in england you find these houses, and, i dare say, people like my aunts living in them. "they are very nice to me, and as different as possible from each other. aunt marcia must have been quite good-looking, and since she gave up wearing a rational dress which she patented twenty-five years ago, she has always worn either black silk or black satin, a large black satin hat, rather like the old 'pokes,' with black feathers in winter and white feathers in summer, and a variety of lace scarves--real lace--which she seems to have collected all over the world. aunt winifred says that the unipantaloonicoat'--the name of the patented thing--lost aunt marcia all her lovers. they were scared by so much strength of character, and could not make up their minds to tackle her. she gave it up in order to capture the last of them--a dear old general who had adored her--but he shook his head, went off to malta to think it out, and there died of malta fever. she considers herself his widow and his portrait adorns her sitting-room. she has a poor opinion of the lower orders, especially of domestic servants. but her own servants don't seem to mind her much. the butler has been here twenty years, and does just what he pleases. the amusing thing is that she considers herself extremely intellectual, because she learnt latin in her youth--she doesn't remember a word of it now!--because she always read the reviews of papa's books--and because she reads poetry every morning before breakfast. just now she is wrestling with george meredith; and she asks me to explain 'modern love' to her. i can't make head or tail of it. nor can she. but when people come to tea she begins to talk about meredith, and asks them if they don't think him very obscure. and as most people here who come to tea have never heard of him, it keeps up her dignity. all the same, she is a dear old thing--and she put a large case of chocolate in my room before i arrived! "aunt winifred is quite different. aunt marcia calls her a 'reactionary,' because she is very high church and great friends with all the clergy. she is a very quiet little thing, short and fair, with a long thin nose and eyes that look you through. her two great passions are--curates, especially consumptive curates--and animals. there is generally a consumptive curate living the open-air life in the garden. mercifully the last patient has just left. as for animals, the house is full of stray dogs and tame rabbits and squirrels that run up you and look for nuts in your pocket. there is also a mongoose, who pulled the cloth off the tea-table yesterday and ran away with all the cakes. aunt marcia bears it philosophically, but the week before i came there was a crisis. aunt winifred met some sheep on the road between here and our little town. she asked where they were going to. and the man with them said he was taking them to the slaughter-house. she was horrified, and she bought them all--there and then! and half an hour later, she appeared here with the sheep, and aunt marcia was supposed to put them up in the garden. well, that was too much, and the aunts had words. what happened to the sheep i don't know. probably aunt winifred has eaten them since without knowing it. "dear nora--i wonder why i write you all these silly things when there is so much else to say--and i know you want to hear it. but it's horribly difficult to begin.--well, first of all, mr. sorell and otto radowitz are about three miles from here, in a little vicarage that has a wide lookout upon the moors and a heavenly air. the aunts have found me a horse, and i go there often. otto is in some ways very much better. he lives an ordinary life, walks a fair amount, and is reading some classics and history with mr. sorell, besides endless books of musical theory and biography. you know he passed his first musical exam last may. for the second, which will come off next year, he has to write a composition in five-part harmony for at least five stringed instruments, and he is beginning work for it now. he writes and writes, and his little study at the vicarage is strewn deep in scribbled music-paper. with his left hand and his piano he does wonders, but the poor right hand is in a sling and quite useless, up to now. he reads scores endlessly, and he said to me yesterday that he thought his intellectual understanding of music--his power of grasping it through the eye--of hearing it with the mind--'ditties of no tone!'--had grown since his hand was injured. but the pathetic thing is that the sheer pleasure--the joy and excitement--of his life is gone; those long hours of dreaming and composing with the piano, when he could not only make himself blissfully happy, but give such exquisite pleasure to others. "he is very quiet and patient now--generally--and quite determined to make a name for himself as a composer. but he seems to me extraordinarily frail. do you remember that lovely french poem of sully prudhomme's i read you one night--'_le vase brisé_'? the vase has had a blow. no one knew of it. but the little crack widens and grows. the water ebbs away--the flowers die. '_il est brisé_--_n'y touchez pas_!' i can see it is just that mr. sorell feels about otto. "what makes one anxious sometimes, is that he has hours of a kind of fierce absent-mindedness, when his real self seems to be far away--as though in some feverish or ugly dream. he goes away and wanders about by himself. mr. sorell does not attempt to follow him, though he is always horribly anxious. and after some hours he comes back, limp and worn out, but quite himself again--as though he had gone through some terrible wrestle and escaped. "mr. sorell gave him, a little while ago, a wonderful new automatic thing--a piano-player, i think they call it. it works with a roll like a musical box and has pedals. but otto can't do much with it. to get any expression out of it you must use your hands--both hands; and i am afraid it has been more disappointment than joy. but there are rumours of some development--something electric--that plays itself. they say there is an inventor at work in paris, who is doing something wonderful. i have written to a girl i know at the embassy to ask her to find out. it might just help him through some weary hours--that's all one can say. "the relation between him and mr. sorell is wonderful. oh, what an angel mr. sorell is! how can any human being, and with no trouble at all apparently, be so unselfish, so self-controlled? what will any woman do who falls in love with him? it won't make any difference that he'll think her so much better than himself--because she'll know the truth. i see no chance for her. my dear nora, the best men are better than the best women--there! but--take note!--i am not in love with him, though i adore him, and when he disapproves of me, i feel a worm. "i hear a good deal of the fallodens, but nobody sees them. every one shrinks from pestering them with society--not from any bad feeling--but because every one knows by now that they are in hideous difficulties, and doesn't want to intrude. lady laura, they say, is very much changed, and sir arthur looks terribly ill and broken. aunt marcia hears that douglas falloden is doing all the business, and impressing the lawyers very much. oh, i do hope he is helping his father! "i can't write about him, nora darling. you would wonder how i can feel the interest in him i do. i know that. but i can't believe, as otto does, that he is deliberately cruel--a selfish, hard-hearted monster. he has been a spoilt child all his life. but if some great call were made upon him, mightn't it stir up something splendid in him, finer things than those are capable of 'who need no repentance'? "there--something has splashed on my paper. i have written enough. now you must tell me of yourselves. how is your father? does aunt ellen like ryde? i am so delighted to hear that mr. pryce is actually coming. tell him that, of course, i will write to uncle langmoor, and lord glaramara, whenever he wishes, about that appointment. i am sure something can be done. give alice my love. i thought her new photographs charming. and you, darling, are you looking after everybody as usual? i wish i could give you a good hug. good-bye." * * * * * to which nora replied, a couple of days later-- * * * * * "your account of aunt marcia and aunt winifred amused father tremendously. he thinks, however, that he would like aunt marcia better than aunt winifred, as he--and i--get more anticlerical every year. but we keep it to ourselves. mamma and alice wouldn't understand. ryde is very full, and mamma and alice want nothing more than the pier and the sands and the people. papa and i take long walks along the coast, or across the island. we find a cliff to bask on, or a wood that comes down to the water, and then papa gets out a greek book and translates to me. sometimes i listen to the sea, instead of to him, and go to sleep. but he doesn't mind. he is looking better, but work is loading up for him again as soon as we get back to oxford about a week from now. if only he could get rid of drudgery, and write his best about the things he loves. nobody knows what a mind he has. he is not only a scholar--he is a poet. he could write things as beautiful as mr. pater's, but his life is ground out of him. "i won't go on writing this--it's no good. "herbert pryce came down yesterday, and has taken mother and alice out boating to-day. if he doesn't mean to propose to alice, it is very odd he should take the trouble to come here. but he doesn't say anything definite; he doesn't propose; and her face often makes me furious. his manner to mamma--and to me--is often brusque and disagreeable. it is as though he felt that in marrying alice--if he is going to marry her--he is rather unfairly burdened with the rest of us. and it is no good shirking the fact that you count for a good deal in the matter. he was delighted with your message, and if you can help him he will propose to alice. goodness, fancy marrying such a man! "as to mr. falloden, i don't believe he will ever be anything but hard and tyrannical. i don't believe in conversion and change of heart, and that kind of thing. i don't--i don't! you are not to be taken in, connie! you are not to fall in love with him again out of pity. if he does lose all his money, and have to work like anybody else, what does it matter? he was as proud as lucifer--let him fall like lucifer. you may be sure he won't fall so very far. that kind never does. no, i want him put down. i want him punished. he won't repent--he can't repent--and there was never any one less like a lost sheep in the world. "after which i think i will say good-night!" * * * * * a few days later, connie, returning from a ramble with one of lady winifred's stray dogs along the banks of the scarfe, found her two aunts at tea in the garden. "sit down, my dear connie," said lady marcia, with a preoccupied look. "we have just heard distressing news. the clergy are such gossips!" the elevation of aunt winifred's sharp nose showed her annoyance. "and you, marcia, are always so dreadfully unfair to them. you were simply dying for mr. latimer to tell you all he knew, and then you abuse him." "perfectly true," said lady marcia provokingly, "but if he had snubbed me, i should have respected him more." whereupon it was explained to connie that a mr. latimer, rector of the fallodens' family living of flood magna, had just been paying a long visit to the two ladies. he was a distant cousin and old crony of theirs, and it was not long before they had persuaded him to pour out all he knew about the falloden affairs. "they must sell everything!" said lady marcia, raising her hands and eyes in protest--"the estates, the house, the pictures--my dear, think of the pictures! the nation of course ought to buy them, but the nation never has a penny. and however much they sell, it will only just clear them. there'll be nothing left but lady laura's settlement--and that's only two thousand a year." "well, they won't starve," said aunt winifred, with a sniff, applying for another piece of tea-cake. "it's no good, marcia, your trying to stir us up. the fallodens are not beloved. nobody will break their hearts--except of course we shall all be sorry for lady laura and the children. and it will be horrid to have new people at flood." "my dear connie, it is a pity we haven't been able to take you to flood," said lady marcia to her niece, handing a cup of tea. "you know douglas, so of course you would have been shown everything. such pictures! such lovely old rooms! and then the grounds--the cedars--the old gardens! it really is a glorious place. i can't think why winifred is so hard-hearted about it!" lady winifred pressed her thin lips together. "marcia, excuse me--but you really do talk like a snob. before i cry over people who have lost their property, i ask myself how they have lost it, and also how they have used it." the little lady drew herself up fiercely. "we have all got beams in our own eyes," cried aunt marcia. "and of course we all know, winifred, that sir arthur never would give you anything for your curates." "that has nothing to do with it," said lady winifred angrily. "i gave sir arthur a sacred opportunity--which he refused. that's his affair. but when a man gambles away his estates, neglects his duties and his poor people, wastes his money in riotous living, and teaches his children to think themselves too good for this common world, and then comes to grief--i am not going to whine and whimper about it. let him take it like a man!" "so he does," said her sister warmly. "you know mr. latimer said so, and also that douglas was behaving very well." "what else can he do? i never said he wasn't fond of his father. well, now let him look after his father." the two maiden ladies, rather flushed and agitated, faced each other nervously. they had forgotten the presence of their niece. constance sat in the shade, her beautiful eyes passing intently from one sister to the other, her lips parted. aunt marcia, by way of proving to her sister winifred that she was a callous and unkind creature, began to rake up inconsequently a number of incidents throwing light on the relations of father and son; which lady winifred scornfully capped by another series of recollections intended to illustrate the family arrogance, and douglas falloden's full share in it. for instance: _marcia_--"i shall never forget that charming scene when douglas made a hundred, not out, the first day of the flood cricket week, when he was sixteen. sir arthur's face! and don't you remember how he went about half the evening with his arm round the boy's shoulders?" _winifred_--"yes, and how douglas hated it! i can see him wriggling now. do you remember that just a week after that, douglas broke his hunting-whip beating a labourer's boy, whom he found trespassing in one of the coverts, and how sir arthur paid fifty pounds to get him out of the scrape?" _marcia_, indignantly--"of course that was just a lad's high spirits! i have no doubt the labourer's boy richly deserved it." _winifred_--"really, marcia, your tone towards the lower orders! you don't allow a labourer's boy any high spirits!--not you! and i suppose you've quite forgotten that horrid quarrel between the hunt and the farmers which was entirely brought about by douglas's airs. 'pay them!--pay them!' he used to say--'what else do the beggars want?' as if money could settle everything! and i remember a farmer's wife telling me how she had complained to douglas about the damage done by the flood pheasants in their fields. and he just mocked at her. 'why don't you send in a bigger bill?' 'but it's not only money, my lady,' she said to me. 'the fields are like your children, and you hate to see them wasted by them great birds--money or no money. but what's the good of talking? fallodens always best it!'" _marcia_--with the air of one defending the institutions of her country--"shooting and hunting have to be kept up, winifred, for the sake of the physique of our class; and it's the physique of our class that maintains the empire. what do a few fields of corn matter compared with that! and what young man could have done a more touching--a more heroic thing--than--" _winifred_, contemptuously--"what?--sir arthur's accident? you always did lose your head about that, marcia. nothing much, i consider, in the story. however, we shan't agree, so i'd better go to my choir practice." when she was out of sight, and marcia, who was always much agitated by an encounter with her sister, was still angrily fanning herself, connie laid a hand on her aunt's knee. "what was the story, aunt marcia?" lady marcia composed herself. connie, in a thin black frock, with a shady hat and a tea-rose at her waist, was looking up at the elder lady with a quiet eagerness. marcia patted the girl's hand. "winifred never asked your opinion, my dear!--and i expect you know him a great deal better than either of us." "i never knew him before this year. that's a very little while. i--i'm sure he's difficult to know. perhaps he's one of the people--who"--she laughed--"who want keeping." "that's it!" cried lady marcia, delighted. "of course that's it. it's like a rough fruit that mellows. anyway i'm not going to damn him for good at twenty-three, like winifred. well, sir arthur was very badly thrown, coming home from hunting, six years ago now and more, when douglas was seventeen. it was in the christmas holidays. they had had a run over leman moor and sir arthur and douglas got separated from the rest, and were coming home in the dark through some very lonely roads--or tracks--on the edge of the moor. they came to a place where the track went suddenly into a wood, and a pheasant was startled by the horses, and flew right across sir arthur, almost in his face. the horse--it was always said no one but sir arthur falloden could ride it--took fright, bolted, dashed in among the trees, threw sir arthur, and made off. when douglas came up he found his father on the ground, covered with blood, and insensible. there was no one anywhere near. the boy shouted--no one came. it was getting dark and pouring with rain--an awful january night--i remember it well! douglas tried to lift his father on his own horse, but the horse got restive, and it couldn't be done. if he had ridden back to a farm about a mile away he could have got help. but he thought his father was dying, and he couldn't make up his mind, you see, to leave him. then--imagine!--he somehow was able--of course he was even then a splendid young fellow, immensely tall and strong for his age--to get sir arthur on his back, and to carry him through two fields to a place where he thought there was a cottage. but when he got there, the cottage was empty--no lights--and the door padlocked. he laid his father down under the shelter of the cottage, and called and shouted. not a sign of help! it was awfully cold--a bitter north wind--blowing great gusts of rain. nobody knows quite how long they were there, but at last they were found by the vicar of the village near, who was coming home on his bicycle from visiting a sick woman at the farm. he told me that douglas had taken off his own coat and a knitted waistcoat he wore, and had wrapped his father in them. he was sitting on the ground with his back to the cottage wall, holding sir arthur in his arms. the boy himself was weak with cold and misery. the vicar said he should never forget his white face, when he found them with his lamp, and the light shone on them. douglas was bending over his father, imploring him to speak to him--in the tenderest, sweetest way. then, of course, when the vicar, mr. burton, had got a cart and taken them to the farm, and a carriage had come from flood with two doctors, and sir arthur had begun to recover his senses, douglas--looking like a ghost--was very soon ordering everybody about in his usual lordly manner. 'he slanged the farmer,' said mr. burton, 'for being slow with the cart; he sent me off on errands as though i'd been his groom; and when the doctors came, you'd have thought he was more in charge of the case than they were. they thought him intolerable; so he was. but i made allowances, because i couldn't forget how i had seen them first--the boy's face, and his chattering teeth, and how he spoke to his father. he's spoilt, that lad! he's as proud as satan. if his father and mother don't look out, he'll give them sore hearts some day. but he can feel!--and--if he could have given his life for his father's that night, he would have done it with joy.'--well, there it is, connie!--it's a true story anyway, and why shouldn't we remember the nice things about a young man, as well as the horrid ones?" "why not, indeed?" said connie, her chin on her hands, her eyes bent on the ground. lady marcia was silent a moment, then she said with a tremulous accent that belied her height, her stateliness and her black satin gown: "you see, connie, i know more about men than winifred does. we have had different experiences." "she's thinking about the general," thought connie. "poor old dear!" and she gently touched her aunt's long thin hand. lady marcia sighed. "one must make allowances for men," she said slowly. connie offered no reply, and they sat together a few more minutes in silence. then connie rose. "i told the coachman, aunt marcia, i should ride for an hour or so after tea. if i take the lawley road, does that go anywhere near flood?" "it takes you to the top of the moor, and you have a glorious view of the castle and all its woods. yes, do go that way. you'll see what the poor things have lost. you did like douglas, didn't you?" "'like' is not exactly the word, is it?" said constance with a little laugh, vexed to feel that she could not keep the colour out of her cheeks. "and he doesn't care whether you like him or not!" she went away, and her elderly aunt watched her cross the lawn. lady marcia looked puzzled. after a few moments' meditation a half light broke on her wrinkled face. "is it possible? oh, no!" it was a rich august evening. in the fields near the broad river the harvest had begun, and the stubbles with their ranged stocks alternated with golden stretches still untouched. the air was full of voices--the primal sounds of earth, and man's food-gathering; calling reapers, clattering carts, playing children. and on the moors that closed the valley there were splashes and streaks of rose colour, where the heather spread under the flecked evening sky. constance rode in a passion of thought. "on the other side of that moor--five miles away--there he is! what is he doing now--at this moment? what is he thinking of?" presently the road bent upward, and she followed it, soothed by the quiet movement of her horse and by the evening air. she climbed and climbed, till the upland farms fell behind, and the road came out upon the open moor. the distance beyond began to show--purple woods in the evening shadow, dim valleys among them, and wide grassy stretches. a little more, and she was on the crest. the road ran before her--westward--a broad bare whiteness through the sun-steeped heather. and, to the north, a wide valley, where wood and farm and pasture had been all fashioned by the labour of generations into one proud setting for the building in its midst. flood castle rose on the green bottom of the valley, a mass of mellowed wall and roof and tower, surrounded by its stately lawns and terraces, and girdled by its wide "chase," of alternating wood and glade--as though wrought into the landscape by the care of generations, and breathing history. a stream, fired with the sunset, ran in loops and windings through the park, and all around the hills rose and fell, clothed with dark hanging woods. [illustration: _lady connie held in her horse, feeding her eyes upon flood castle and its woods_] constance held in her horse, feeding her eyes upon the castle and its woods. her mind, as she looked, was one riot of excuse for douglas falloden. she knew very well--her own father had been an instance of it--that a man can be rich and well-born, and still remain modest and kind. but--but--"how hardly shall they that have riches--!" she moved slowly on, thinking and gazing, till she had gone much further than she intended, and the light had begun to fail. she would certainly be late for dinner. looking round her for her bearings, she saw on the scarfedale side of the hill, about three miles away, what she took to be her aunts' house. surely there must be a short cut to it. yes! there was a narrow road to be seen, winding down the hill, and across the valley, which must certainly shorten the distance. and almost immediately she found herself at the entrance to it, where it abutted on the moor; and a signpost showed the name of hilkley, her aunts' village. she took the road at once, and trotted briskly along, as the twilight deepened. a gate ahead! well, never mind. the horse was quiet; she could easily manage any ordinary latch. but the gate was difficult, and she fumbled at, it. again and again, she brought up her horse, only to fail. and the cob began to get nervous and jump about--to rear a little. whenever she stooped towards the gate, it would swerve violently, and each unsuccessful attempt made it more restive. she began to get nervous herself. "how abominable! must i go back? suppose i get off? but if i do, can i get on again?" she looked round her for a log or a stone. who was that approaching? for suddenly she saw a horse and rider coming from the hilkley direction towards the gate. a moment--then through the dusk she recognised the rider; and agitation--suffocating, overwhelming--laid hold upon her. a sharp movement on the part of the horseman checked his horse. falloden pulled up in amazement on the further side of the gate. "you?--lady constance!" she controlled herself, with a great effort. "how do you do? my horse shies at the gate. he's so tiresome--i was just thinking of getting off. it will be most kind if you will let me through." she drew aside, quieting and patting the cob, while he opened the gate. then she passed through and paused, looking back. "thank you very much. are there any more gates?" "two more i am afraid," he said formally, as he turned and joined her. "will you allow me to open them for you?" "it would be very good of you," she faltered, not knowing how to refuse, or what to say. they walked their horses side by side, through the gathering darkness. an embarrassed and thrilling silence reigned between them, till at last he said: "you are staying at scarfedale--with your aunts?" "yes." "i heard you were there. they are only five miles from us." she said nothing. but she seemed to realise, through every nerve, the suppressed excitement of the man beside her. another couple of minutes passed. then he said abruptly: "i should like to know that you read my last letter to you--only that! i of course don't ask for--for any comments upon it." "yes, i received it. i read it." he waited a little, but she said no more. he sharply realised his disappointment, and its inconsequence. the horses slowly descended the long hill. falloden opened another gate, with the hurried remark that there was yet one more. meanwhile he saw connie's slender body, her beautiful loosened hair and black riding-hat outlined against the still glowing sky behind. her face, turned towards the advancing dusk, he could hardly see. but the small hand in its riding-glove, so close to him, haunted his senses. one movement, and he could have crushed it in his. far away the last gate came into sight. his bitterness and pain broke out. "i can't imagine why you should feel any interest in my affairs," he said, in his stiffest manner, "but you kindly allowed me to talk to you sometimes about my people. you know, i presume, what everybody knows, that we shall soon be leaving flood, and selling the estates." "i know." the girl's voice was low and soft. "i am awfully, awfully sorry!" "thank you. it doesn't of course matter for me. i can make my own life. but for my father--it is hard. i should like you to know"--he spoke with growing agitation--"that when we met--at cannes--and at oxford--i had no knowledge--no idea--of what was happening." she raised her head suddenly, impetuously. "i don't know why you say that!" he saw instantly that his wounded pride had betrayed him into a blunder--that without meaning it, he had seemed to suggest that she would have treated him differently, if she had known he was not a rich man. "it was a stupid thing to say. please consider it unsaid." the silence deepened, till she broke it again-- "i see mr. radowitz sometimes. won't you like to know that he is composing a symphony for his degree? he is always working at it. it makes him happy--at least--contented." "yes, i am glad. but nothing can ever make up to him. i know that." "no--nothing," she admitted sadly. "or to me!" constance started. they had reached the last gate. falloden threw himself off his horse to open it and as she rode through, she looked down into his face. its proud regularity of feature, its rich colour, its brilliance, seemed to her all blurred and clouded. a flashing insight showed her the valley of distress and humiliation through which this man had been passing. his bitter look, at once of challenge and renunciation, set her trembling; she felt herself all weakness; and suddenly the woman in her--dumbly, unguessed--held out its arms. but he knew nothing of it. rather her attitude seemed to him one of embarrassment--even of _hauteur_. it was suddenly intolerable to him to seem to be asking for her pity. he raised his hat, coldly gave her a few directions as to her road home, and closed the gate behind her. she bowed and in another minute he was cantering away from her, towards the sunset. connie went on blindly, the reins on her horse's neck, the passionate tears dropping on her hands. chapter xiii douglas falloden rode home rapidly after parting from connie. passion, impatience, bitter regret consumed him. he suffered, and could not endure to suffer. that life, which had grown up with him as a flattering and obsequious friend, obeying all his whims, yielding to all his desires, should now have turned upon him in this traitorous way, inflicting such monstrous reprisals and rebuffs, roused in him the astonishment and resentment natural to such a temperament. he, too, drew rein for a moment at the spot where connie had looked out over flood castle and its valley. the beautiful familiar sight produced in him now only a mingling of pain and irritation. the horrid thing was settled, decided. there was no avoiding ruin, or saving his inheritance. then why these long delays, these endless discomforts and humiliations? the lawyers prolonged things because it paid them to do so; and his poor father wavered and hesitated from day to day, because physically and morally he was breaking up. if only his father and mother would have cleared out of flood at once--they were spending money they could not possibly afford in keeping it up--and had left him, douglas, to do the odious things, pay the creditors, sell the place, and sweep up the whole vast mess, with the help of the lawyers, it would have been infinitely best. his own will felt itself strong and determined enough for any such task. but sir arthur, in his strange, broken state, could not be brought to make decisions, and would often, after days of gloom and depression, pass into a fool's mood, when he seemed for the moment to forget and ignore the whole tragedy. since he and douglas had agreed with the trustees to sell the pictures, that sheer bankruptcy might just be escaped, sir arthur had been extravagantly cheerful. why not have their usual shooting-party after all?--one last fling before the end! he supposed he should end his days in a suburban villa, but till they left flood the flag should be kept flying. during all this time of tension indeed, he was a great trial to his son. douglas's quick and proud intelligence was amazed to find his father so weak and so incompetent under misfortune. all his boyish life he had looked up to the slender, handsome man, whom he himself so much resembled, on a solider, more substantial scale, as the most indulgent of fathers, the princeliest of hosts, the best of shots and riders, chief indeed of the falloden clan and all its glories, who, like other monarchs, could do no wrong. but now the glamour which must always attend the central figure of such a scene withered at the touch of poverty and misfortune. and, in its absence, douglas found himself dealing with an enthusiastic, vain, self-confident being, who had ruined himself and his son by speculations, often so childishly foolish that douglas could not think of them without rage. intellectually, he could only despise and condemn his father. yet the old bond held. till he met constance bledlow, he had cared only for his own people, and among them, preëminently, for his father. in this feeling, family pride and natural affection met together. the family pride had been sorely shaken, the affection, steeped in a painful, astonished pity, remained. for the first time in his life douglas had been sleeping badly. interminable dreams pursued him, in which the scene in marmion quad, his last walk with constance along the cherwell, and the family crash, were all intermingled, with the fatuity natural to dreams. and his wakings from them were almost equally haunted by the figures of constance and radowitz, and by a miserable yearning over his father, which no one who saw his hard, indifferent bearing during the day could possible have guessed. "poor--poor old fellow!"--he had once or twice raised himself from his bed in the early morning, as though answering this cry in his ears, only to find that he himself had uttered it. he had told his people nothing of constance bledlow beyond the bare fact of his acquaintance with her, first at cannes, and then at oxford. and they knew nothing of the radowitz incident. very few people indeed were aware of the true history of that night which had marred an artist's life. the college authorities had been painfully stirred by the reports which had reached them; but radowitz himself had written to the head maintaining that the whole thing was an accident and a frolic, and insisting that no public or official notice should be taken of it, a fact which had not prevented the head from writing severely to falloden, meyrick, and robertson, or the fellows of the college from holding a college meeting, even in the long vacation, to discuss what measures should be taken in the october term to put down and stamp out ragging. falloden had replied to the head's letter expressing his "profound regret" for the accident to otto radowitz, and declaring that nobody in the row had the smallest intention of doing him any bodily harm. what indeed had anybody but himself to do with his own malignant and murderous impulse towards radowitz? it had had no casual connection whatever with the accident itself. and who but he--and constance bledlow--was entitled to know that, while the others were actuated by nothing but the usual motives of a college rag, quickened by too much supping, he himself had been impelled by a mad jealousy of radowitz, and a longing to humiliate one who had humiliated him? all the same he hated himself now for what he had said to constance on their last walk. it had been a mean and monstrous attempt to shift the blame from his own shoulders to hers; and his sense of honour turned from the recollection of it in disgust. how pale she had looked, beside that gate, in the evening light--how heavy-eyed! no doubt she was seeing radowitz constantly, and grieving over him; blaming herself, indeed, as he, falloden, had actually invited her to do. with fresh poignancy, he felt himself an outcast from her company. no doubt they sometimes talked of him--his bitter pride guessed how!--she, and sorell, and radowitz together. was sorell winning her? he had every chance. falloden, in his sober senses, knew perfectly well that she was not in love with radowitz; though no one could say what pity might do with a girl so sensitive and sympathetic. well, it was all over!--no good thinking about it. he confessed to himself that his whole relation to constance bledlow had been one blunder from beginning to end. his own arrogance and self-confidence with regard to her, appeared to him, as he looked back upon them, not so much a fault as an absurdity. in all his dealings with her he had been a conceited fool, and he had lost her. "but i had to be ruined to find it out!" he thought, capable at last of some ironic reflection on himself. he set his horse to a gallop along the moorland turf. let him get home, and do his dreary tasks in that great house which was already becoming strange to him; which, in a sense, he was now eager to see the last of. on the morrow, the possible buyer of the pictures--who, by the way, was not an american at all, but a german shipping millionaire from bremen--was coming down, with an "expert." hang the expert! falloden, who was to deal with the business, promised himself not to be intimidated by him, or his like; and amid his general distress and depression, his natural pugnacity took pleasure in the thought of wrestling with the pair. when he rode up to the flood gateway everything appeared as usual. the great lawns in front of the house were as immaculately kept as ever, and along the shrubberies which bordered the park there were gardeners still at work pegging down a broad edge of crimson rambler roses, which seemed to hold the sunset. falloden observed them. "who's paying for them?" he thought. at the front door two footmen received him; the stately head butler stood with a detached air in the background. "sir arthur's put off dinner half an hour, sir. he's in the library." douglas went in search of his father. he found him smoking and reading a novel, apparently half asleep. "you're very late, duggy. never mind. we've put off dinner." "i found sprague had a great deal to say." sprague was the subagent living on the further edge of the estate. douglas had spent the day with him, going into the recent valuation of an important group of farms. "i dare say," said sir arthur, lying back in his armchair. "i'm afraid i don't want to hear it." douglas sat down opposite his father. he was dusty and tired, and there were deep pits tinder his eyes. "it will make a difference of a good many thousands to us, father, if that valuation is correct," he said shortly. "will it? i can't help it. i can't go into it. i can't keep the facts and figures in my head, duggy. i've done too much of them this last ten years. my brain gives up. but you've got a splendid head, duggy--wonderful for your age. i leave it to you, my son. do the best you can." douglas looked at his father a moment in silence. sir arthur was sitting near the window, and had just turned on an electric light beside him. douglas was struck by something strange in his father's attitude and look--a curious irresponsibility and remoteness. the deep depression of their earlier weeks together had apparently disappeared. this mood of easy acquiescence--almost levity--was becoming permanent. yet douglas could not help noticing afresh the physical change in a once splendid man--how shrunken his father was, and how grey. and he was only fifty-two. but the pace at which he had lived for years, first in the attempt to double his already great wealth by adventures all over the world, and latterly in his frantic efforts to escape the consequences of these adventures, had rapidly made an old man of him. the waste and pity--and at the same time the irreparableness of it all--sent a shock, intolerably chill and dreary, through the son's consciousness. he was too young to bear it patiently. he hastily shook it off. "those picture chaps are coming to-morrow," he said, as he got up, meaning to go and dress. sir arthur put his hands behind his head, and didn't reply immediately. he was looking at a picture on the panelled wall opposite, on which the lingering western glow still shone through the mullioned window on his right. it was an enchanting romney--a young woman in a black dress holding a spaniel in her arms. the picture breathed a distinction, a dignity beyond the reach of romney's ordinary mood. it represented sir arthur's great-grandmother, on his father's side, a famous irish beauty of the day. "wonder what they'll give me for that," he said quietly, pointing to it. "my father always said it was the pick. you remember the story that she--my great-grandmother--once came across lady hamilton in romney's studio, and emma hamilton told romney afterwards that at last he'd found a sitter handsomer than herself. it's a winner. you inherit her eyes, douglas, and her colour. what's it worth?" "twenty thousand perhaps." douglas's voice had the cock-sureness that goes with new knowledge. "i've been looking into some of the recent prices." "twenty thousand!" said sir arthur, musing. "and romney got seventy-five for it, i believe--i have the receipt somewhere. i shall miss that picture. what shall i get for it? a few shabby receipts--for nothing. my creditors will get something out of her--mercifully. but as for me--i might as well have cut her into strips. she looks annoyed--as though she knew i'd thrown her away. i believe she was a vixen." "i must go and change, father," said douglas. "yes, yes, dear boy, go and change. douglas, you think there'll be a few thousands over, don't you, besides your mother's settlement, when it's all done?" "precious few," said douglas, pausing on his way to the door. "don't count upon anything, father. if we do well to-morrow, there may be something." "four or five thousand?--ten, even? you know, duggy, many men have built up fortunes again on no more. a few weeks ago i had all sorts of ideas." "that's no good," said douglas, with emphasis. "for god's sake, father, don't begin again." sir arthur nodded silently, and douglas left the room. his father remained sitting where his son had left him, his fingers drumming absently on the arms of his chair, his half-shut eyes wandering over the splendid garden outside, with its statues and fountains, and its masses of roses, all fused in the late evening glow. the door opened softly. his wife came in. lady laura had lost her old careless good humour. her fair complexion had changed for the worse; there were lines in her white forehead, and all her movements had grown nervous and irritable. but her expression as she stood by her husband was one of anxious though rather childish affection. "how are you, arthur? did you get a nap?" "a beauty!" said her husband, smiling at her, and taking her hand. "i dreamt about raby, and the first time i saw you there in the old duke's day. what a pretty thing you were, laura!--like a monthly rose, all pink." he patted her hand; lady laura shrugged her shoulders rather pettishly. "it's no good thinking about that now.... you're not really going to have a shooting-party, arthur? i do wish you wouldn't!" "but of course i am!" said her husband, raising himself with alacrity. "the grouse must be shot, and the estate is not sold yet! i've asked young meyrick, and lord charles, and robert vere. you can ask the charlevilles, dear, and if my lady doesn't come i shan't break my heart. then there are five or six of the neighbours of course. and no whining and whimpering! the last shoot at flood shall be a good one! the keeper tells me the birds are splendid!" lady laura's lips trembled. "you forget what duggy and i shall be feeling all the time, arthur. it's very hard on us." "no--nonsense!" the voice was good-humouredly impatient. "take it calmly, dear. what do places matter? come to the andes with me. duggy must work for his fellowship; nelly can stay with some of our relations; and we can send the children to school. or what do you say to a winter in california? let's have a second honeymoon--see something of the world before we die. this english country gentleman business ties one terribly. life in one's own house is so jolly one doesn't want anything else. but now, if we're going to be uprooted, let's enjoy it!" "enjoy it!" repeated his wife bitterly. "how can you say such things, arthur?" she walked to the window, and stood looking out at the garden with its grandiose backing of hill and climbing wood, and the strong broken masses of the cedar trees--the oldest it was said in england--which flanked it on either side. lady laura was, in truth, only just beginning to realise their misfortunes. it had seemed to her impossible that such wealth as theirs should positively give out; that there should be nothing left but her miserable two thousand a year; that something should not turn up to save them from this preposterous necessity of leaving flood. when douglas came home, she had thrown herself on her clever son, confident that he would find a way out, and his sombre verdict on the hopelessness of the situation had filled her with terror. how could they live with nothing but the london house to call their own? how could they? why couldn't they sell off the land, and keep the house and the park? then they would still be the fallodens of flood. it was stupid--simply stupid--to be giving up everything like this. so day by day she wearied her husband and son by her lamentations, which were like those of some petted animal in distress. and every now and then she had moments of shrinking terror--of foreboding--fearing she knew not what. her husband seemed to her changed. why wouldn't he take her advice? why wouldn't douglas listen to her? if only her father had been alive, or her only brother, they could have helped her. but she had nobody--nobody--and arthur and douglas would do this horrible thing. her husband watched her, half smiling--his shrunken face flushed, his eyes full of a curious excitement. she had grown stout in the last five years, poor laura!--she had lost her youth before the crash came. but she was still very pleasant to look upon, with her plentiful fair hair, and her pretty mouth--her instinct for beautiful dress--and her soft appealing manner. he suddenly envisaged her in black--with a plain white collar and cuffs, and something white on her hair. then vehemently shaking off his thought he rose and went to her. "dear--didn't duggy want you to ask somebody for the shoot? i thought i heard him mention somebody?' "that was ages ago. he doesn't want anybody asked now," said lady laura resentfully. "he can't understand why you want a party." "i thought he said something about lady constance bledlow?" "that was in june!" cried lady laura. "he certainly wouldn't let me ask her, as things are." "have you any idea whether he may have wanted to marry her?" "he was very much taken with her. but how can he think about marrying, arthur? you do say the strangest things. and after dagnall's behaviour too." "_raison de plus!_ that girl has money, my dear, and will have more, when the old aunts depart this life. if you want duggy still to go into parliament, and to be able to do anything for the younger ones, you'll keep an eye on her." lady laura, however, was too depressed to welcome the subject. the gong rang for dinner, and as they were leaving the room, sir arthur said-- "there are two men coming down to-morrow to see the pictures, laura. if i were you, i should keep out of the way." she gave him a startled look. but they were already on the threshold of the dining-room, where a butler and two footmen waited. the husband and wife took their places opposite each other in the stately panelled room, which contained six famous pictures. over the mantelpiece was a half-length gainsborough, one of the loveliest portraits in the world, a miracle of shining colour and languid grace, the almond eyes with their intensely black pupils and black eyebrows looking down, as it seemed, contemptuously upon this after generation, so incurably lacking in its own supreme refinement. opposite lady laura was a full-length van dyck of the genoese period, a mother in stiff brocade and ruff, with an adorable child at her knee; and behind her chair was the great titian of the house, a man in armour, subtle and ruthless as the age which bred him, his hawk's eye brooding on battles past, and battles to come, while behind him stretched the venetian lagoon, covered dimly with the fleet of the great republic which had employed him. facing the gainsborough hung one of cuyp's few masterpieces--a mass of shipping on the scheldt, with dordrecht in the background. for play and interplay of everything that delights the eye--light and distance, transparent water, and hovering clouds, the lustrous brown of fishing boats, the beauty of patched sails and fluttering flags--for both literary and historic suggestion, dutch art had never done better. impressionists and post-impressionists came down occasionally to stay at flood--for sir arthur liked to play mæcenas--and were allowed to deal quite frankly with the pictures, as they wandered round the room at dessert, cigarette in hand, pointing out the absurdities of the cuyp and the titian. their host, who knew that he possessed in that room what the collectors of two continents desired, who felt them buzzing outside like wasps against a closed window, took a special pleasure in the scoffs of the advanced crew. they supplied an agreeable acid amid a general adulation that bored him. to-night the presence of the pictures merely increased the excitement which was the background of his mind. he talked about them a good deal at dinner, wondering secretly all the time, what it would be like to do without them--without flood--without his old butler there--without everything. douglas came down late, and was very silent and irresponsive. he too was morbidly conscious of the pictures, though he wished his father wouldn't talk about them. he was conscious of everything that meant money--of his mother's pearls for instance, which she wore every evening without thinking about them. if he did well with the pictures on the morrow she might, perhaps, justly keep them, as a dowry for nelly. but if not--he found himself secretly watching his mother, wondering how she would take it all when she really understood--what sort of person she would turn out to be in the new life to which they were all helplessly tending. after dinner, he followed his father into the smoking room. "where is the catalogue of the pictures, father?" "in the library, duggy, to the right hand of the fire-place. i paid a fellow a very handsome sum for making it--a fellow who knew a lot--a real expert. but, of course, when we published it, all the other experts tore it to pieces." "if i bring it, will you go through it with me?" sir arthur shrugged his shoulders. "i don't think i will, duggy. the catalogue--there are a great many marginal notes on it which the published copies haven't got--will tell you all i know about them, and a great deal more. and you'll find a loose paper at the beginning, on which i've noted down the prices people have offered me for them from time to time. like their impudence, i used to think! i leave it to you, old boy. i know it's a great responsibility for a young fellow like you. but the fact is--i'm pumped. besides, when they make their offer, we can talk it over. i think i'll go and play a game of backgammon with your mother." he threw away his cigar, and douglas, angry at what seemed to him his father's shirking, stood stiffly aside to let him pass. sir arthur opened the door. he seemed to walk uncertainly, and he stooped a great deal. from the hall outside, he looked back at his son. "i think i shall see m'clintock next time i'm in town, duggy. i've had some queer pains across my chest lately." "indigestion?" said douglas. his tone was casual. "perhaps. oh, they're nothing. but it's best to take things in time." he walked away, leaving his son in a state of seething irritation. extraordinary that a man could think of trumpery ailments at such a time! it was unlike his father too, whose personal fitness and soundness, whether on the moors, in the hunting field, or in any other sort of test, had always been triumphantly assumed by his family, as part of the general brilliance of sir arthur's role in life. douglas sombrely set himself to study the picture catalogue, and sat smoking and making notes till nearly midnight. having by that time accumulated a number of queries to which answers were required, he went in search of his father. he found him in the drawing-room, still playing backgammon with lady laura. "oh duggy, i'm so tired!" cried his mother plaintively, as soon as he appeared. "and your father will go on. do come and take my place." sir arthur rose. "no, no, dear--we've had enough. many thanks. if you only understood its points, backgammon is really an excellent game. well, duggy, ready to go to bed?" "when i've asked you a few questions, father." lady laura escaped, having first kissed her son with tearful eyes. sir arthur checked a yawn, and tried to answer douglas's enquiries. but very soon he declared that he had no more to say, and couldn't keep awake. douglas watched him mounting the famous staircase of the house, with its marvellous _rampe_, bought under the bourbon restoration from one of the historic chateaux of france; and, suddenly, the young man felt his heart gripped. was that shrunken, stooping figure really his father? of course they must have m'clintock at once--and get him away--to scotland or abroad. * * * * * "the two gentlemen are in the red drawing-room, sir!" douglas and his father were sitting together in the library, after lunch, on the following afternoon, when the butler entered. "damn them!" said sir arthur under his breath. then he got up, smiling, as the servant disappeared. "well, duggy, now's your chance. i'm a brute not to come and help you, my boy. but i've made such a mess of driving the family coach, you'd really better take a turn. i shall go out for an hour. then you can come and report to me." douglas went into the red drawing-room, one of the suite of rooms dating from the early seventeenth century which occupied the western front of the house. as he entered, he saw two men at the farther end closely examining a large constable, of the latest "palette-knife" period, which hung to the left of the fire-place. one of the men was short, very stout, with a fringe of grey hair round his bald head, a pair of very shrewd and sparkling black eyes, a thick nose, full lips, and a double chin. he wore spectacles, and was using in addition, a magnifying glass with which he was examining the picture. beside him stood a thin, slightly-bearded man, cadaverous in colour, who, with his hands in his pockets, was holding forth in a nonchalant, rather patronising voice. both of them turned at douglas's entrance, surveying the son of the house with an evident and eager curiosity. "you are, i suppose, mr. douglas falloden?" said the short man, speaking perfect english, though with a slight german accent. "your father is not able to see us?" "my father will be pleased to see you, when you have been the round of the pictures," said douglas stiffly. "he deputes me to show you what we have." the short man laughed. "i expect we know what you have almost as well as you. let me introduce mr. miklos." douglas bowed, so did the younger man. he was, as douglas already knew, a hungarian by birth, formerly an official in one of the museums of budapest, then at munich, and now an "expert" at large, greatly in demand as the adviser of wealthy men entering the field of art collecting, and prepared to pay almost anything for success in one of the most difficult and fascinating _chasses_ that exist. "i see you have given this room almost entirely to english pictures," said mr. miklos politely. "a fine constable!"--he pointed to the picture they had just been considering--"but not, i think, entirely by the master?" [illustration: _herr schwarz was examining a picture with a magnifying glass when falloden entered_] "my great-grandfather bought it from constable himself," said douglas. "it has never been disputed by any one." mr. miklos did not reply, but he shook his head with a slight smile, and walked away towards a turner, a fine landscape of the middle period, hanging close to the constable. he peered into it short-sightedly, with his strong glasses. "a pity that it has been so badly relined," he said presently, to douglas, pointing to it. "you think so? its condition is generally thought to be excellent. my father was offered eight thousand for it last year by the berlin museum." douglas was now apparently quite at his ease. with his thumbs in the armholes of his white waistcoat, he strolled along beside the two buyers, holding his own with both of them, thanks to his careful study of the materials for the history of the collection possessed by his father. the elder man, a bremen ship-owner,--one wilhelm schwarz--who had lately made a rapid and enormous fortune out of the argentine trade, and whose chief personal ambition it now was to beat the new york and paris collectors, in the great picture game, whatever it might cost, was presently forced to take some notice of the handsome curly-headed youth in the perfectly fitting blue serge suit, whose appearance as the vendor, or the vendor's agent, had seemed to him, at first, merely one more instance of english aristocratic stupidity. as a matter of fact, herr schwarz was simply dazzled by the contents of flood castle. he had never dreamt that such virgin treasures still existed in this old england, till miklos, instructed by the falloden lawyer, had brought the list of the pictures to his hotel, a few days before this visit. and now he found it extremely difficult to conceal his excitement and delight, or to preserve, in the presence of this very sharp-eyed young heir, the proper "don't care" attitude of the buyer. he presently left the "running down" business almost entirely to miklos, being occupied in silent and feverish speculations as to how much he could afford to spend, and a passion of covetous fear lest somehow a----, or z----, or k----, the leading collectors of the moment, should even yet forestall him, early and "exclusive" as miklos assured him their information had been. they passed along through the drawing-rooms, and the whole wonderful series of family portraits, reynolds', lawrences, gainsboroughs, romneys, hoppners, looked down, unconscious of their doom, upon the invaders, and on the son of the house, so apparently unconcerned. but douglas was very far from unconcerned. he had no artistic gift, and he had never felt or pretended any special interest in the pictures. they were part of flood, and flood was the inseparable adjunct of the falloden race. when his father had first mooted the sale of them, douglas had assented without much difficulty. if other things went, why not they? but now that he was in the thick of the business, he found, all in a moment, that he had to set his teeth to see it through. a smarting sense of loss--loss hateful and irreparable, cutting away both the past and the future--burnt deep into his mind, as he followed in the track of the sallow and depreciatory miklos or watched the podgy figure of herr schwarz, running from side to side as picture after picture caught his eye. the wincing salesman saw himself as another charles surface; but now that the predicament was his own it was no longer amusing. these fair faces, these mothers and babies of his own blood, these stalwart men, fighters by sea and land, these grave thinkers and churchmen, they thronged about him transformed, become suddenly alien and hostile, a crowd of threatening ghosts, the outraged witnesses of their own humiliation. "for what are you selling us?"--they seemed to say. "because some one, who was already overfed, must needs grab at a larger mess of pottage--and we must pay! unkind! degenerate!" presently, after the english drawing-rooms, and the library, with its one romney, came the french room, with its precious watteaus, its latours, its two brilliant nattiers. and here herr schwarz's coolness fairly deserted him. he gave little shrieks of pleasure, which brought a frown to the face of his companion, who was anxious to point out that a great deal of the watteau was certainly pupil-work, that the latours were not altogether "convincing" and the nattiers though extremely pretty, "superficial." but herr schwarz brushed him aside. "_nein, nein, lieber freund_! dat nattier is as fine as anything at potsdam. dat i must have!" and he gazed in ecstasy at the opulent shoulders, the rounded forms, and gorgeous jewelled dress of an unrivalled madame de pompadour, which had belonged to her brother, the marquis de marigny. "you will have all or nothing, my good sir!" thought falloden, and bided his time. meanwhile miklos, perceiving that his patron was irretrievably landed and considering that his own "expert" dignity had been sufficiently saved, relaxed into enthusiasm and small talk. only in the later italian rooms did his critical claws again allow themselves to scratch. a small leonardo, the treasure of the house, which had been examined and written about by every european student of milanese art for half a century, was suavely pronounced-- "a da predis, of course, but a very nice one!" a bellini became a rondinelli; and the names of a dozen obscure, and lately discovered painters, freely applied to the tintorets, mantegnas and cimas on the walls, produced such an effect on herr schwarz that he sat down open-mouthed on the central ottoman, staring first at the pictures and then at the speaker; not knowing whether to believe or to doubt. falloden stood a little apart, listening, a smile on his handsome mouth. "we should know nothing about rondinelli," said miklos at last, sweetly--"but for the great bode--" "_ach_, bode!" said herr schwarz, nodding his head in complacent recognition at the name of the already famous assistant-director of the berlin museum. falloden laughed. "dr. bode was here last year. he told my father he thought the bellini was one of the finest in existence." miklos changed countenance slightly. "bode perhaps is a trifle credulous," he said in an offended tone. but he went back again to the bellini and examined it closely. falloden, without waiting for his second thoughts, took herr schwarz into the dining-room. at the sight of the six masterpieces hanging on its walls, the bremen ship-owner again lost his head. what miraculous good-fortune had brought him, ahead of all his rivals, into this still unravaged hive? he ran from side to side,--he grew red, perspiring, inarticulate. at last he sank down on a chair in front of the titian, and when miklos approached, delicately suggesting that the picture, though certainly fine, showed traces of one of the later pupils, possibly molari, in certain parts, herr schwarz waved him aside. "_nein, nein!_--hold your tongue, my dear sir! here must i judge for myself." then looking up to falloden who stood beside him, smiling, almost reconciled to the vulgar, greedy little man by his collapse, he said abruptly-- "how much, mr. falloden, for your father's collection?" "you desire to buy the whole of it?" said falloden coolly. "i desire to buy everything that i have seen," said herr schwarz, breathing quickly. "your solicitors gave me a list of sixty-five pictures. no, no, miklos, go away!"--he waved his expert aside impatiently. "those were the pictures on the ground floor," said falloden. "you have seen them all. you had better make your offer in writing, and i will take it to my father." he fetched pen and paper from a side-table and put them before the excited german. herr schwarz wrinkled his face in profound meditation. his eyes almost disappeared behind his spectacles, then emerged sparkling. he wrote some figures on a piece of paper, and handed it to douglas. douglas laughed drily, and returned it. "you will hardly expect me to give my father the trouble of considering that." herr schwarz puffed and blowed. he got up, and walked about excitedly. he lit a cigarette, falloden politely helping him. miklos advanced again. "i have, myself, made a very careful estimate--" he began, insinuatingly. "no, no, miklos,--go away!--go away!" repeated schwarz impatiently, almost walking over him. miklos retreated sulkily. schwarz took up the paper of figures, made an alteration, and handed it to falloden. "it is madness," he said--"sheer madness. but i have in me something of the poet--the crusader." falloden's look of slightly sarcastic amusement, as the little man breathlessly examined his countenance, threw the buyer into despair. douglas put down the paper. "we gave you the first chance, herr schwarz. as you know, nobody is yet aware of our intentions to sell. but i shall advise my father to-night to let one or two of the dealers know." "_ach, lieber gott!_" said herr schwarz, and walking away to the window, he stood looking into the rose-garden outside, making a curious whistling sound with his prominent lips, expressive, evidently, of extreme agitation. falloden lit another cigarette, and offered one to miklos. at the end of two or three minutes, schwarz again amended the figures on the scrap of paper, and handed it sombrely to falloden. "dat is my last word." falloden glanced at it, and carelessly said-- "on that i will consult my father." he left the room. schwarz and miklos looked at each other. "what airs these english aristocrats give themselves," said the hungarian angrily--"even when they are beggars, like this young man!" schwarz stood frowning, his hands in his pockets, legs apart. his agitation was calming down, and his more prudent mind already half regretted his impetuosity. "some day--we shall teach them a lesson!" he said, under his breath, his eyes wandering over the rose-garden and the deer-park beyond. the rapidly growing docks of bremen and hamburg, their crowded shipping, the mounting tide of their business, came flashing into his mind--ran through it in a series of images. this england, with her stored wealth, and her command of the seas--must she always stand between germany and her desires? he found himself at once admiring and detesting the english scene on which he looked. that so much good german money should have to go into english pockets for these ill-gotten english treasures! what a country to conquer--and to loot! "and they are mere children compared to us--silly, thick-headed children! yet they have all the plums--everywhere." * * * * * falloden came back. the two men turned eagerly. "my father thanks you for your offer, gentlemen. he is very sorry he is not able to see you as he hoped. he is not very well this afternoon. but i am to say that he will let you have an answer in twenty-four hours. then if he agrees to your terms, the matter will have to go before the court. that, of course, our lawyers explained to you--" "that will not suit me at all!" cried herr schwarz. "as far as your father is concerned, my offer must be accepted--or rejected--now." he struck his open hand on the polished mahogany of the table beside him. "then i am very sorry you have had the trouble of coming down," said falloden politely. "shall i order your carriage?" the great ship-owner stared at him. he was on the point of losing his temper, perhaps of withdrawing from his bargain, when over falloden's head he caught sight of the titian and the play of light on its shining armour; of the van dyck opposite. he gave way helplessly; gripped at the same moment by his parvenu's ambition, and by the genuine passion for beautiful things lodged oddly in some chink of his common and philistine personality. "i have the refusal then--for twenty-four hours?" he said curtly. falloden nodded, wrote him a statement to that effect, ordered whisky and soda, and saw them safely to their carriage. * * * * * then pacing slowly through the rooms, he went back towards the library. his mind was divided between a kind of huckster's triumph and a sense of intolerable humiliation. all around him were the "tribal signs" of race, continuity, history--which he had taken for granted all his life. but now that a gulf had opened between him and them, his heart clung to them consciously for the first time. no good! he felt himself cast out--stripped--exposed. the easy shelter fashioned for him and his by the lives of generations of his kindred had fallen in fragments about him. "well--i never earned it!"--he said to himself bitterly, turning in disgust on his own self-pity. when he reached the library he found his father walking up and down deep in thought. he looked up as his son entered. "well, that saves the bankruptcy, duggy, and--as far as i can see--leaves a few thousands over--portions for the younger children, and what will enable you to turn round." douglas assented silently. after a long look at his son, sir arthur opened a side door which led from the library into the suite of drawing-rooms. slowly he passed through them, examining the pictures steadily, one by one. at the end of the series, he turned and came back again to his own room, with a bent head and meditative step. falloden followed him. in the library, sir arthur suddenly straightened himself. "duggy, do you hate me--for the mess i've made--of your inheritance?" the question stirred a quick irritation in falloden. it seemed to him futile and histrionic; akin to all those weaknesses in his father which had brought them disaster. "i don't think you need ask me that," he said, rather sharply, as he opened a drawer in his father's writing-table, and locked up the paper containing herr schwarz's offer. sir arthur looked at him wistfully. "you've been a brick, duggy--since i told you. i don't know that i had any right to count upon it." "what else could i do?" said douglas, trying to laugh, but conscious--resenting it--of a swelling in the throat. "you could have given a good many more twists to the screw--if you'd been a different sort," said his father slowly. "and you're a tough customer, duggy, to some people. but to me"--he paused, beginning again in another tone-- "duggy, don't be offended with me--but did you ever want to marry lady constance bledlow? you wrote to me about her at christmas." douglas gave a rather excited laugh. "it's rather late in the day to ask me that question." his father eyed him. "you mean she refused you?" his son nodded. "before this collapse?" "before she knew anything about it" "poor old duggy!" said his father, in a low voice. "but perhaps--after all--she'll think better of it. by all accounts she has the charm of her mother, whom risborough married to please himself and not his family." falloden said nothing. he wished to goodness his father would drop the subject. sir arthur understood he was touching things too sore to handle, and sighed. "well, shake hands, duggy, old boy. you carried this thing through splendidly to-day. but it seems to have taken it out of me--which isn't fair. i shall go for a little walk. tell your mother i shall be back in an hour or so." the son took his father's hand. the strong young grasp brought a momentary sense of comfort to the older man. they eyed each other, both pale, both conscious of feelings to which it was easier to give no voice. then their hands dropped. sir arthur looked for his hat and stick, which were lying near, and went out of the open glass door into the garden. he passed through the garden into the park beyond walking slowly and heavily, his son's eyes following him. chapter xiv out of sight of the house, at the entrance of the walk leading to the moor, sir arthur was conscious again of transitory, but rather sharp pains across the chest. he sat down to rest, and they soon passed away. after a few minutes he pursued his walk, climbing towards the open stretches of heathery moor, which lay beyond the park, and a certain ghyll or hollow with a wild stream in it that cleft the moor high up--one of his favourite haunts. he climbed through ferny paths, and amid stretches of heather just coming to its purple prime, up towards the higher regions of the moor where the millstone grit cropped out in sharp edges, showing gaunt and dark against the afternoon sky. here the beautiful stream that made a waterfall within the park came sliding down shelf after shelf of yellowish rock, with pools of deep brown water at intervals, overhung with mountain ash and birch. after the warm day, all the evening scents were abroad, carried by a gentle wind. sir arthur drank them in, with the sensuous pleasure which had been one of his gifts in life. the honey smell of the heather, the woody smell of the bracken, the faint fragrance of wood-smoke wafted from a bonfire in the valley below--they all carried with them an inexpressible magic for the man wandering on the moor. so did the movements of birds--the rise of a couple of startled grouse, the hovering of two kestrels, a flight of wild duck in the distance. each and all reminded him of the halcyon times of life--adventures of his boyhood, the sporting pleasures of his manhood. by george!--how he had enjoyed them all! presently, to his left, on the edge of the heathery slope he caught sight of one of the butts used in the great grouse-shoots of the moor. what a jolly party they had had last year in that week of wonderful october weather! two hundred brace on the home moor the first day, and almost as many on the fairdale moor the following day. some of the men had never shot better. one of the party was now viceroy of india; another had been killed in one of the endless little frontier fights that are the price, month by month, which the british empire pays for its existence. douglas had come off particularly well. his shooting from that butt to the left had been magnificent. sir arthur remembered well how the old hands had praised it, warming the cockles of his own heart. "i will have one more shoot," he said to himself with passion--"i will!" then, feeling suddenly tired, he sat down beside the slipping stream. it was fairly full, after some recent rain, and the music of it rang in his ears. stretching out a hand he filled it full of silky grass and thyme, sniffing at it in delight. "how strange," he thought, "that i can still enjoy these things. but i shall--till i die." below him, as he sat, lay the greater part of his estate stretching east and west; bounded on the west by some of the high moors leading up to the pennine range, lost on the east in a blue and wooded distance. he could see the towers of three village churches, and the blurred greys and browns of the houses clustering round them--some near, some far. stone farm-buildings, their white-washed gables glowing under the level sun, caught his eye, one after the other--now hidden in wood, now standing out upon the fields or the moorland, with one sycamore or a group of yews to shelter them. and here and there were larger houses; houses of the middle gentry, with their gardens and enclosures. farms, villages, woods and moors, they were all his--nominally his, for a few weeks or months longer. and there was scarcely one of them in the whole wide scene, with which he had not some sporting association; whether of the hunting field, or the big autumn shoots, or the jolly partridge drives over the stubbles. but it suddenly and sharply struck him how very few other associations he possessed with these places spread below him in the declining august sunshine. he had not owned flood more than fifteen years--enough however to lose it in! and he had succeeded a father who had been the beloved head of the county, a just and liberal landlord, a man of scrupulous kindness and honour, for whom everybody had a friendly word. his ruined son on the moorside thought with wonder and envy of his father's popular arts, which yet were no arts. for himself he confessed,--aware as he was, this afternoon, of the presence in his mind of a new and strange insight with regard to his own life and past, as though he were writing his own obituary--that the people living in these farms and villages had meant little more to him than the troublesome conditions on which he enjoyed the pleasures of the flood estates, the great income he drew from them, and the sport for which they were famous. he had his friends among the farmers of course, though they were few. there were men who had cringed to him, and whom he had rewarded. and laura had given away plentifully in the villages. but his chief agent he knew had been a hard man and a careless one; and he had always loathed the trouble of looking after him. again and again he had been appealed to, as against his agent; and he had not even answered the letters. he had occasionally done some public duties; he had allowed himself to be placed on the county council, but had hardly ever attended meetings; he had taken the chair and made a speech occasionally, when it would have cost him more effort to refuse than to accept; and those portions of the estate which adjoined the castle were in fairly good repair. but on the remoter farms, and especially since his financial resources had begun to fail, he knew very well that there were cottages and farm-houses in a scandalous state, on which not a farthing had been spent for years. no, it could not be said he had played a successful part as a landowner. he had meant no harm to anybody. he had been simply idle and preoccupied; and that in a business where, under modern conditions, idleness is immoral. he was quite conscious that there were good men, frugal men, kind and god-fearing men, landlords like himself, though on a much smaller scale, in that tract of country under his feet, who felt bitterly towards him, who judged him severely, who would be thankful to see the last of him, and to know that the land had passed into other and better hands. fifty-two years of life lived in that northern vale of eden; and what was there to show for them?--in honest work done, in peace of conscience, in friends? now that the pictures were sold, there would be just enough to pay everybody, with a very little over. there was some comfort in that. he would have ruined nobody but himself and duggy. poor laura would be quite comfortable on her own money, and would give him house-room no doubt--till the end. the end? but he might live another twenty years. the thought was intolerable. the apathy in which he had been lately living gave way. he realised, with quickened breath, what this parting from his inheritance and all the associations of his life would mean. he saw himself as a tree, dragged violently out of its native earth--rootless and rotten. poor duggy! duggy was as proud and wilful as himself; with more personal ambition however, and less of that easy, sensuous recklessness, that gambler's spirit, which had led his father into such quagmires. duggy had shown up well these last weeks. he was not a boy to talk, but in acts he had been good. and through the man's remorseful soul there throbbed the one deep, disinterested affection of his life--his love for his son. he had been very fond of laura, but when it came to moments like this she meant little to him. he gave himself up to this feeling of love. how strange that it should both rend and soothe!--that it and it alone brought some comfort, some spermaceti for the inward bruise, amid all the bitterness connected with it. duggy, in his arms, as a little toddling fellow, duggy at school--playing for harrow at lord's--duggy at college-- but of that part of his son's life, as he realised with shame, he knew very little. he had been too entirely absorbed, when it arrived, in the frantic struggle, first for money, and then for solvency. duggy had become in some ways during the last two years a stranger to him--his own fault! what had he done to help him through his college life--to "influence him for good," as people said? nothing. he had been enormously proud of his son's university distinctions; he had supplied him lavishly with money; he had concealed from him his own financial situation till it was hopeless; he had given him the jolliest possible vacation, and that was all that could be said. the father groaned within himself. and yet again--how strangely!--did some fraction of healing virtue flow from his very distress?--from his remembrance, above all, of how duggy had tried to help him?--during these few weeks since he knew? ah!--tidswell church coming out of the shadows! he remembered how one winter he had been coming home late on horseback through dark lanes, when he met the parson of that church, old and threadbare and narrow-chested, trudging on, head bent, against a spitting rain. the owner of flood had been smitten with a sudden compunction, and dismounting he had walked his horse beside the old man. the living of tidswell was in his own gift. it amounted, he remembered, to some £ a year. the old man, whose name was trevenen, had an old wife, to whom sir arthur thought lady laura had sometimes sent some cast-off clothes. mr. trevenen had been baptising a prematurely born child in a high moorland farm. the walk there and back had been steep and long, and his thin lantern-jawed face shone very white through the wintry dusk. "you must be very tired," sir arthur had said, remembering uncomfortably the dinner to which he was himself bent--the chef, the wines, the large house-party. and mr. trevenen had looked up and smiled. "not very. i have been unusually cheered as i walked by thoughts of the divine love!" the words had been so simply said; and a minute afterwards the old pale-faced parson had disappeared into the dark. what did the words mean? had they really any meaning? "the divine love." arthur falloden did not know then, and did not know now. but he had often thought of the incident. he leaned over, musing, to gather a bunch of hare-bells growing on the edge of the stream. as he did so, he was conscious again of a sharp pain in the chest. in a few more seconds, he was stretched on the moorland grass, wrestling with a torturing anguish that was crushing his life out. it seemed to last an eternity. then it relaxed, and he was able to breathe and think again. "what is it?" confused recollections of the death of his old grandfather, when he himself was a child, rose in his mind. "he was out hunting--horrible pain--two hours. is this the same? if it is--i shall die--here--alone." he tried to move after a little, but found himself helpless. a brief intermission, and the pain rushed on him again, like a violent and ruthless hand, grinding the very centres of life. when he recovered consciousness, it was with the double sense of blissful relief from agony and of ebbing strength. what had happened to him? how long had he been there? "could you drink this?" said a voice behind him. he opened his eyes and saw a young man, with a halo of red-gold hair, and a tremulous, pitying face, quite strange to him, bending over him. there was some brandy at his lips. he drank with difficulty. what had happened to the light? how dark it was! "where am i?" he said, looking up blindly into the face above him. "i found you here--on the moor--lying on the grass. are you better? shall i run down now--and fetch some one?" "don't go--" the agony returned. when sir arthur spoke again, it was very feebly. "i can't live--through--much more of that. i'm dying. don't leave me. where's my son? where's my son--douglas? who are you?" the glazing eyes tried to make out the features of the stranger. they were too dim to notice the sudden shiver that passed through them as he named his son. "i can't get at any one. i've been calling for a long time. my name is radowitz. i'm staying at penfold rectory. if i could only carry you! i tried to lift you--but i couldn't. i've only one hand." he pointed despairingly to the sling he was wearing. "tell my son--tell douglas--" but the faint voice ceased abruptly, and the eyes closed. only there was a slight movement of the lips, which radowitz, bending his ear to the mouth of the dying man, tried to interpret. he thought it said "pray," but he could not be sure. radowitz looked round him in an anguish. no one on the purple side of the moor, no one on the grassy tracks leading downwards to the park; only the wide gold of the evening--the rising of a light wind--the rustling of the fern--and the loud, laboured breathing below him. he bent again over the helpless form, murmuring words in haste. * * * * * meanwhile after sir arthur left the house, douglas had been urgently summoned by his mother. he found her at tea with trix in her own sitting-room. roger was away, staying with a school friend, to the general relief of the household; nelly, the girl of seventeen, was with relations in scotland, but trix had become her mother's little shadow and constant companion. the child was very conscious of the weight on her parents' minds. her high spirits had all dropped. she had a wistful, shrinking look, which suited ill with her round face and her childishly parted lips over her small white teeth. the little face was made for laughter; but in these days only douglas could bring back her smiles, because mamma was so unhappy and cried so much; and that mamma should cry seemed to bring her whole world tumbling about the child's ears. only douglas, for sheer impatience with the general gloom of the house, would sometimes tease her or chase her; and then the child's laugh would ring out--a ghostly echo from the days before lady laura "knew." poor lady laura! up to the last moment before the crash, her husband had kept everything from her. she was not a person of profound or sensitive feeling; and yet it is probable that her resentment of her husband's long secrecy, and the implications of it, counted for a great deal in her distress and misery. the sale of the pictures, as shortly reported by douglas, had overwhelmed her. as soon as her son appeared in her room, she poured out upon him a stream of lamentation and complaint, while trix was alternately playing with the kitten on her knee and drying furtive tears on a very grubby pocket-handkerchief. douglas was on the whole patient and explanatory, for he was really sorry for his mother; but as soon as he could he escaped from her on the plea of urgent letters and estate accounts. the august evening wore on, and it was nearing sunset when his mother came hurriedly into the library. "douglas, where is your father?" "he went out for a walk before tea. hasn't he come in?" "no. and it's more than two hours. i--i don't like it, duggy. he hasn't been a bit well lately--and so awfully depressed. please go and look for him, dear!" douglas suddenly perceived the terror in his mother's mind. it seemed to him absurd. he knew his father better than she did; but he took his hat and went out obediently. he had happened to notice his father going towards the moor, and he took the same path, running simply for exercise, measuring his young strength against the steepness of the hill and filling his lungs with the sweet evening air, in a passionate physical reaction against the family distress. five miles away, in this same evening glow, was constance bledlow walking or sitting in her aunts' garden? or was she nearer still--at penfold rectory, just beyond the moor he was climbing, the old rectory-house where sorell and radowitz were staying? he had taken good care to give that side of the hills a wide berth since his return home. but a great deal of the long ridge was common ground, and in the private and enclosed parts there were several rights of way crossing the moor, besides the one lonely road traversing it from end to end on which he had met constance bledlow. if he had not been so tied at home, and so determined not to run any risks of a meeting, he might very well have come across sorell at least, if not radowitz, on the high ground dominating the valleys on either side. sorell was a great walker. but probably they were as anxious to avoid a casual meeting as he was. the evening was rapidly darkening, and as he climbed he searched the hillside with his quick eyes for any sign of his father. once or twice he stopped to call: "father!" the sound died away, echoing among the fields and hollows of the moor. but there was no answer. he climbed further. he was now near the stream which descended through the park, and its loud jubilant voice burst upon him, filling the silence. then, above the plashing of the stream and the rising of the wind, he heard suddenly a cry: "help!" it came from a point above his head. a sudden horror came upon him. he dashed on. in another minute a man's figure appeared, higher up, dark against the reddened sky. the man put one hand to his mouth, and shouted through it again--"help!" douglas came up with him. in speechless amazement he saw that it was otto radowitz, without a coat, bareheaded, pale and breathless. "there's a man here, falloden. i think it's your father. he's awfully ill. i believe he's dying. come at once! i've been shouting for a long time." douglas said nothing. he rushed on, following radowitz, who took a short cut bounding through the deep ling of the moor. only a few yards till douglas perceived a man, with a grey, drawn face, who was lying full length on a stretch of grass beside the stream, his head and shoulders propped against a low rock on which a folded coat had been placed as a pillow. "father!" sir arthur opened his eyes. he was drawing deep, gasping breaths, the strong life in him wrestling still. but the helplessness, the ineffable surrender and defeat of man's last hour, was in his face. falloden knelt down. "father!--don't you know me? well soon carry you home. it's duggy!" no answer. radowitz had gone a few yards away, and was also kneeling, his face buried in his hands, his back turned to the father and son. douglas made another agonised appeal, and the grey face quivered. a whisper passed the lips. "it's best, duggy--poor duggy! kiss me, old boy. tell your mother--that young man--prayed for me. she'll like to--know that. my love--" the last words were spoken with a great effort; and the breaths that followed grew slower and slower as the vital tide withdrew itself. once more the eyes opened, and douglas saw in them the old affectionate look. then the lips shaped themselves again to words that made no sound; a shudder passed through the limbs--their last movement. douglas knelt on, looking closely into his father's face, listening for the breath that came no more. he felt rather than saw that radowitz had moved still further away. two or three deep sobs escaped him--involuntary, almost unconscious. then he pulled himself together. his mother? who was to tell her? he went to call radowitz, who came eagerly. "my father is dead," said falloden, deadly pale, but composed. "how long have you been here?" "about half an hour. when i arrived he was in agonies of pain. i gave him brandy, and he revived a little. then i wanted to go for help, but he begged me not to leave him alone. so i could only shout and wave my handkerchief. the pains came back and back--and every time he grew weaker. oh, it was _angina_. i have seen it before--twice. if i had only had some nitrite of amyl! but there was nothing--nothing i could do." he paused, and then added timidly, "i am a catholic; i said some of our prayers." he looked gravely into falloden's face. falloden's eyes met his, and both men remembered--momentarily--the scene in marmion quad. "we must get him down," said falloden abruptly. "and there is my mother." "i would help you to carry him, of course; but--you see--i can't." [illustration: _douglas knelt, looking into his father's face, and radowitz moved farther away_] his delicate skin flushed deeply. falloden realised for the first time the sling across his shoulder and the helpless hand lying in it. he turned away, searching with his eyes the shadows of the valley. at the moment, the spot where they stood was garishly illuminated by the rapidly receding light, which had already left the lower ground. the grass at their feet, the rocks, the stream, the stretches of heather were steeped and drenched in the last rays of sun which shot upon them in a fierce concentration from the lower edge of a great cloud. but the landmarks below were hard to make out--for a stranger's eyes. "you see that cottage--where the smoke is?" radowitz assented. "you will find a keeper there. send him with three or four men." "yes--at once. shall i take a message to the house?" radowitz spoke very gently. the red-gold of his hair, and his blue eyes, were all shining in the strange light. but he was again as pale as falloden himself. douglas drew out a pencil, and a letter from his pocket. he wrote some words on the envelope, and handed it to radowitz. "that's for my mother's maid. she will know what to do. she is an old servant. i must stay here." radowitz rushed away, leaping and running down the steep side of the hill, his white shirt, crossed by the black sling, conspicuous all the way, till he was at last lost to sight in the wood leading to the keeper's cottage. falloden went back to the dead man. he straightened his father's limbs and closed his eyes. then he lay down beside him, throwing his arm tenderly across the body. and the recollection came back to him of that hunting accident years ago--the weight of his father on his shoulders--the bitter cold--the tears which not all his boyish scorn of tears could stop. his poor mother! she must see radowitz, for radowitz alone could tell the story of that last half hour. he must give evidence, too, at the inquest. _radowitz_! thoughts, ironic and perverse, ran swarming through falloden's brain, as though driven through it from outside. what a nursery tale!--how simple!--how crude! could not the gods have devised a subtler retribution? then these thoughts vanished again, like a cloud of gnats. the touch of his father's still warm body brought him back to the plain, tragic fact. he raised himself on his elbow to look again at the dead face. the handsome head with its grizzled hair was resting on radowitz's coat. falloden could not bear it. he took off his own, and gently substituted it for the other. and as he laid the head down, he kissed the hair and the brow. he was alone with his father--more alone than he ever would be again. there was not a human step or voice upon the moor. night was coming rapidly on. the stream rushed beside him. there were a few cries of birds--mostly owls from the woods below. the dead man's face beside him was very solemn and quiet. and overhead, the angry sunset clouds were fading into a dim and star-strewn heaven, above a world sinking to its rest. * * * * * the moon was up before radowitz came back to the little rectory on the other side of the moor. sorell, from whose mind he was seldom absent, had begun to worry about him, was in fact on the point of setting out in search of him. but about nine o'clock he heard the front gate open and jumping down from the low open window of the rectory drawing-room he went to meet the truant. radowitz staggered towards him, and clung to his arm. "my dear fellow," cried sorell, aghast at the bay's appearance and manner--"what have you been doing to yourself?" "i went up the moor for a walk after tea--it was so gorgeous, the clouds and the view. i got drawn on a bit--on the castle side. i wasn't really thinking where i was going. then i saw the park below me, and the house. and immediately afterwards, i heard a groaning sound, and there was a man lying on the ground. it was sir arthur falloden--and he died--while i was there." the boy's golden head dropped suddenly against sorell. "i say, can't i have some food, and go to bed?" sorell took him in and looked after him like a mother, helped by the kind apple-faced rector, who had heard the castle news from other sources also, and was greatly moved. when otto's exhaustion had been fed and he was lying in his bed with drawn brows, and no intention or prospect of going to sleep, sorell let him tell his tale. "when the bearers came, i went down with them to the castle, and i saw lady laura"--said the boy, turning his head restlessly from side to side. "i say, it's awful--how women cry! then they told me about the inquest--i shall have to go to-morrow--and on the way home i went to see lady connie. i thought she ought to know." sorell started. "and you found her?" "oh, yes. she was sitting in the garden." there was a short silence. then otto flung up his left hand, caught a gnat that was buzzing round his head, and laughed--a dreary little sound. "it's quite true--she's in love with him." "with douglas falloden?" otto nodded. "she was awfully cut up when i told her--just for him. she didn't cry of course. our generation doesn't seem to cry--like lady laura. but you could see what she wanted." "to go to him?" "that's it. and of course she can't. my word, it is hard on women! they're hampered such a lot--by all their traditions. why don't they kick 'em over?" "i hope she will do nothing of the kind," said sorell with energy. "the traditions may just save her." otto thought over it. "you mean--save her from doing something for pity that she wouldn't do if she had time to think?" sorell assented. "why should that fellow be any more likely now to make her happy--" "because he's lost his money and his father? i don't know why he should. i dare say he'll begin bullying and slave-driving again--when he's forgotten all this. but--" "but what?" "well--you see--i didn't think he could possibly care about anything but himself. i thought he was as hard as a millstone all through. well, he isn't. that's so queer!" the speaker's voice took a dreamy tone. sorell glanced in bitterness at the maimed hand lying on the bed. it was still bandaged, but he knew very well what sort of a shapeless, ruined thing it would emerge, when the bandages were thrown aside. it was strange and fascinating--to a student of psychology--that otto should have been brought, so suddenly, so unforeseeably, into this pathetic and intimate relation with the man to whom, essentially, he owed his disaster. but what difference did it make in the quality of the marmion outrage, or to any sane judgment of douglas falloden? "go to sleep, old boy," he said at last. "you'll have a hard time to-morrow." "what, the inquest? oh, i don't mind about that. if i could only understand that fellow!" he threw his head back, staring at the ceiling. otto radowitz, in spite of sorell's admonitions, slept very little that night. his nights were apt to be feverish and disturbed. but on this occasion imagination and excitement made it impossible to stop the brain process, the ceaseless round of thought; and the hours of darkness were intolerably long. memory went back behind the meeting with the dying man on the hillside, to an earlier experience--an hour of madness, of "possession." his whole spiritual being was still bruised and martyred from it, like that sufferer of old whom the evil spirit "tore" in departing. what had delivered him? the horror was still on him, still his master, when he became aware of that white face on the grass-- he drowsed off again. but in his half-dream, he seemed to be kneeling again and reciting latin words, words he had heard last when his mother was approaching her end. he was more than half sceptical, so far as the upper mind was concerned; but the under-consciousness was steeped in ideas derived from his early home and training, ideas of sacrifice, forgiveness, atonement, judgment--the common and immortal stock of christianity. he had been brought up in a house pervaded by the crucifix, and by a mother who was ardently devout. but why had god--if there was a god--brought this wonderful thing to pass? never had his heart been so full of hatred as in that hour of lonely wandering on the moor, before he perceived the huddled figure lying by the stream. and, all in a moment, he had become his enemy's proxy--his representative--in the last and tenderest service that man can render to man. he had played the part of son to falloden's dying father--had prayed for him from the depths of his heart, tortured with pity. and when falloden came, with what strange eyes they had looked at each other!--as though all veils had dropped--all barriers had, for the moment, dropped away. "shall i hate him again to-morrow?" thought radowitz. "or shall i be more sorry for him than for myself? yes, that's what i felt!--so marvellously!" so that when he went to constance with his news, and under the emotion of it, saw the girl's heart unveiled--"i was not jealous," he thought. "i just wanted to give her everything!" yet, as the night passed on, and that dreary moment of the first awakening earth arrived, when all the griefs of mankind weigh heaviest, he was shaken anew by gusts of passion and despair; and this time for himself. suppose--for in spite of all sorell's evasions and concealments, he knew very well that sorell was anxious about him, and the doctors had said ugly things--suppose he got really ill?--suppose he died, without having lived? he thought of constance in the moonlit garden, her sweetness, her gratefulness to him for coming, her small, white "flower-face," and the look in her eyes. "if i might--only once--have kissed her--have held her in my arms!" he thought, with anguish. and rolling on his face, he lay prone, fighting his fight alone, till exhaustion conquered, and "he took the gift of sleep." chapter xv douglas falloden was sitting alone in his father's library surrounded by paper and documents. he had just concluded a long interview with the family lawyer; and a tray containing the remains of their hasty luncheon was on a side-table. the room had a dusty, dishevelled air. half of the house-servants had been already dismissed; the rest were disorganised. lady laura had left flood the day before. to her son's infinite relief she had consented to take the younger children and go on a long visit to some scotch relations. it had been left vague whether she returned to flood or not; but douglas hoped that the parting was already over--without her knowing it; and that he should be able to persuade her, after scotland, to go straight to the london house--which was her own property--for the winter. meanwhile he himself had been doing his best to wind up affairs. the elaborate will of twenty years earlier, with its many legacies and bequests, had been cancelled by sir arthur only six weeks before his death. a very short document had been substituted for it, making douglas and a certain marmaduke falloden, his uncle and an eminent k.c., joint executors, and appointing douglas and lady laura guardians of the younger children. whatever property might remain "after the payment of my just debts" was to be divided in certain proportions between douglas and his brother and sisters. the estates, with the exception of the lands immediately surrounding the castle, were to be sold to the tenants, and the dates of the auction were already fixed. for the castle itself, negotiations had been opened with an enormously successful soap-boiler from the north, but an american was also in the market, and the falloden solicitors were skilfully playing the two big fish against each other. the sale of the pictures would come before the court early in october. meanwhile the beautiful romney--the lady in black--still looked down upon her stripped and impoverished descendant; and falloden, whose sole companion she often was through dreary hours, imagined her sometimes as tragic or reproachful, but more commonly as mocking him with a malicious irish glee. there would be some few thousand pounds left for himself when all was settled. he was determined to go into parliament, and his present intention was to stand for a merton fellowship, and read for the bar. if other men could make three or four thousand a year within three years or so of being called, why not he? his character had steeled under the pressure of disaster. he realised with a clearer intelligence, day by day, all that had gone from him--his father--his inheritance--the careless ease and self-assurance that goes with the chief places at the feast of life. but if he must now drop to the lower rooms, it would not be "with shame" that he would do that, or anything else. he felt within himself a driving and boundless energy, an iron will to succeed. there was even a certain bitter satisfaction in measuring himself against the world without the props and privileges he had hitherto possessed. he was often sore and miserable to his heart's depths; haunted by black regrets and compunction he could not get rid of. all the same it was his fixed resolve to waste no thoughts on mere happiness. his business was to make a place for himself as an able man among able men, to ask of ambition, intelligence, hard work, and the sharpening of brain on brain, the satisfaction he had once hoped to get out of marriage with constance bledlow, and the easy, though masterly, use of great wealth. he turned to look at the clock. she had asked him for five. he had ordered his horse accordingly, the only beast still left in the flood stables, and his chief means of escape during a dreary fortnight from his peevish co-executor, who was of little or no service, and had allowed himself already to say unpardonable things about his dead brother, even to that brother's son. it was too soon to start, but he pushed his papers aside impatiently. the mere prospect of seeing constance bledlow provoked in him a dumb and troubled excitement. under its impulse he left the library, and began to walk aimlessly through the dreary and deserted house, for the mere sake of movement. the pictures were still on the walls, for the sale of them had not yet been formally sanctioned by the court; but all lady laura's private and personal possessions had been removed to london, and dust-sheets covered the furniture. some of it indeed had been already sold, and workmen were busy packing in the great hall, amid a dusty litter of paper and straw. all the signs of normal life, which make the character of a house, had gone; what remained was only the débris of a once animated whole. houses have their fate no less than books; and in the ears of its last falloden possessor, the whole of the great many-dated fabric, from its fourteenth century foundations beneath the central tower, to the pseudo-gothic with which wyatt had disfigured the garden front, had often, since his father's death, seemed to speak with an almost human voice of lamentation and distress. but this afternoon falloden took little notice of his surroundings. why had she written to him? well, after all, death is death, and the merest strangers had written to him--letters that he was now wearily answering. but there had been nothing perfunctory in her letter. as he read it he had seemed to hear her very voice saying the soft, touching things in it--things that women say so easily and men can't hit upon; and to be looking into her changing face, and the eyes that could be so fierce, and then again so childishly sweet and sad--as he had seen them, at their last meeting on the moor, while she was giving him news of radowitz. yet there was not a word in the letter that might not have been read on the house-tops--not a trace in it of her old alluring, challenging self. simplicity--deep feeling--sympathy--in halting words, and unfinished sentences--and yet something conspicuously absent and to all appearance so easily, unconsciously absent, that all the sweetness and pity brought him more smart than soothing. yes, she had done with him--for all her wish to be kind to him. he saw it plainly; and he turned back thirstily to those past hours in lathom woods, when he had felt himself, if only for a moment, triumphant master of her thoughts, if not her heart; rebelled against, scolded, flouted, yet still tormentingly necessary and important. all that delicious friction, those disputes that are the forerunner of passion were gone--forever. she was sorry for him--and very kind. his touchy pride recoiled, reading into her letter what she had never dreamt of putting into it, just because of the absence of that something--that old tremor--those old signs of his influence over her, which, of course, she would never let him see again. all the same he had replied at once, asking if he might come and say good-bye before she left scarfedale. and she had sent him a telegram--"delighted--to-morrow--five o'clock." and he was going--out of a kind of recklessness--kind of obstinate recoil against the sorrowful or depressing circumstance of life. he had given up all thoughts of trying to win her back, even if there were any chance of it. his pride would not let him sue as a pauper; and of course the langmoors to whom she was going--he understood--from scarfedale, would take good care she did not throw herself away. quite right too. very likely the tamworths would capture her; and bletchley was quite a nice fellow. when he did see her, what could they talk about? radowitz? he would like to send a message through her to radowitz--to say something-- what could he say? he had seen radowitz for a few minutes after the inquest--to thank him for his evidence--and for what he had done for sir arthur. both had hurried through it. falloden had seemed to himself stricken with aphasia. his mouth was dry, his tongue useless. and radowitz had been all nerves, a nickering colour--good god, how deathly he looked! afterwards he had begun a letter to radowitz, and had toiled at it, sometimes at dead of night and in a feverish heat of brain. but he had never finished or sent it. what was the use? nothing was changed. that black sling and the damaged hand in it stood for one of those hard facts that no wishing, and no sentimentalising, and no remorse could get over. "i wish to god i had let him alone!" that now was the frequent and bitter cry of falloden's inmost being. trouble and the sight of trouble--sorrow--and death--had been to him, as to other men, sobering and astonishing facts. the most decisive effect of them had been to make him vulnerable, to break through the hard defences of pride and custom, so that he realised what he had done. and this realisation was fast becoming a more acute and haunting thing than anything else. it constantly drove out the poignant recollection of his father's death, or the dull sense of financial loss and catastrophe. loss and catastrophe might be at some distant time made good. but what could ever give radowitz back his art--his career--his natural object in life? the hatches of the present had just got to be closed over this ugly, irreparable thing. "i can't undo it--nothing can ever be undone. but i can't spend my life in repenting it; one must just go forward, and not let that, or anything else, hamstring a man who has got his fight to fight, and can't get out of it." undo it? no. but were no, even partial, amends possible?--nothing that could be offered, or done, or said?--nothing that would give constance bledlow pleasure, or change her opinion?--efface that shrinking in her, of which he hated to think? he cudgelled his brains, but could think of nothing. money, of course, was of no use, even if he still possessed it. radowitz, in all matters connected with money, was hypersensitive and touchy. it was well known that he had private means; and it was certainly probable that he was now the richer man of the two. no--there was nothing to be done. he had maimed forever the vital, energising impulse in another human being, and it could never be repaired. "his poor music!--_murdered_"--the words from constance bledlow's horror-stricken letter were always in his mind. and the day after the inquest on sir arthur, he had had some conversation on the medical points of his father's case, and on the light thrown on them by radowitz's evidence, with the doctor who was then attending lady laura, and had, it appeared, been several times called in by sorell during the preceding weeks to see radowitz and report on the progress of the hand. "a bad business!" said the young man, who had intelligence and was fresh from hospital--"and awful hard luck!--he might have hurt his hand in a score of ways and still have recovered the use of it, but with this particular injury"--he shook his head--"nothing to be done! and the worst of it is that a trouble like this, which cuts across a man's career, goes so deep. the thing i should be most afraid of is his general health. you can see that he's delicate--narrow-chested--a bundle of nerves. it might be phthisis--it might be"--he shrugged his shoulders--"well, depression, bad neurasthenia. and the poor lad seems to have no family--no mother or sisters--to look after him. but he'll want a lot of care, if he's to pull round again. an oxford row, wasn't it? abominable!" but here the sudden incursion of lady laura's maid to ask a question for her mistress had diverted the doctor's thoughts and spared falloden reply. * * * * * a little later, he was riding slowly up the side of the moor towards scarfedale, looking down on a landscape which since his childhood had been so intimate and familiar a part of himself that the thought of being wrenched away from it, immediately and for good, seemed merely absurd. september was nearly gone; and the trees had long passed out of their august monotony, and were already prophetic of the october blaze. the level afternoon light was searching out the different planes of distance, giving to each hedgerow, elm or oak, a separate force and kingship: and the golden or bronze shades, which were day by day stealing through the woods, made gorgeous marriage with the evening purple. the castle, as he gazed back upon it, had sunk into the shadows, a dim magnificent ghost, seen through mist, like the rhine maidens through the blue water. and there it would stand, perhaps for generations yet, long after he and his kindred knew it no more. what did the plight of its last owner matter to it, or to the woods and hills? he tried to think of that valley a hundred years hence--a thousand!--and felt himself the merest insect crawling on the face of this old world, which is yet so young. but only for a moment. rushing back, came the proud, resisting sense of personality--of man's dominance over nature--of the nietzschean "will to power." to be strong, to be sufficient to one's self; not to yield, but to be forever counterattacking circumstance, so as to be the master of circumstance, whatever blows it might choose to strike--that seemed to be the best, the only creed left to him. when he reached the scarfedale house, and a gardener had taken his horse, the maid who opened the door told him he would find lady constance on the lawn. the old ladies were out driving. very decent of the old ladies, he thought, as he followed the path into the garden. there she was!--her light form lost, almost, in a deep chair, under a lime-tree. the garden was a tangle of late blooming flowers; everything growing rank and fast, as though to get as much out of the soil and the sun as possible, before the first frost made execution. it was surrounded by old red walls that held the dropping sun, and it was full of droning bees, and wagtails stepping daintily over the lawns. connie rose and came towards him. she was in black with pale pink roses in her hat. in spite of her height, she seemed to him the slightest, gracefullest thing, and as she neared him, she lifted her deep brown eyes, and it was as though he had never seen before how beautiful they were. "it was kind of you to come!" she said shyly. he made no reply, till she had placed him beside her under the lime. then he looked round him, a smile twitching his lip. "your aunts are not at home?" "no. they have gone for their drive. did you wish to see them?" "i am in terror of your aunt winifred. she and i had many ructions when i was small. she thought our keepers used to shoot her cats." "they probably did!" "of course. but a keeper who told the truth about it would have no moral sense." they both laughed, looking into each other's faces with a sudden sense of relief from tension. after all the tragedy and the pain, there they were, still young, still in the same world together. and the sun was still shining and flowers blooming. yet, all the same, there was no thought of any renewal of their old relation on either side. something unexpressed, yet apparently final, seemed to stand between them; differing very much in his mind from the something in hers, yet equally potent. she, who had gone through agonies of far too tender pity for him, felt now a touch of something chill and stern in the circumstance surrounding him that seemed to put her aside. "this is not your business," it seemed to say; so that she saw herself as an inexperienced child playing with that incalculable thing--the male. attempts at sympathy or advice died away--she rebelled, and submitted. still there are things--experiments--that even an inexperienced child, a child "of good will" may venture. all the time that she was talking to falloden, a secret expectation, a secret excitement ran through her inner mind. there was a garden door to her left, across a lawn. her eyes were often on it, and her ear listened for the click of the latch. meanwhile falloden talked very frankly of the family circumstances and his own plans. how changed the tone was since they had discussed the same things, riding through the lathom woods in june! there was little less self-confidence, perhaps; but the quality of it was not the same. instead of alienating, it began to touch and thrill her. and her heart could not help its sudden tremor when he spoke of wintering "in or near oxford." there was apparently a merton prize fellowship in december on which his hopes were set, and the first part of his bar examination to read for, whether he got a fellowship or no. "and parliament?" she asked him. "yes--that's my aim," he said quietly. "of course it's the fashion just now, especially in oxford, to scoff at politics and the house of commons. it's like the 'art-for-arters' in town. as if you could solve anything by words--or paints!" "your father was in the house for some time?" she bent towards him, as she mentioned his father, with a lovely unconscious gesture that sent a tremor through him. he seemed to perceive all that shaken feeling in her mind to which she found it so impossible to give expression; on which his own action had placed so strong a curb. he replied that his father had been in parliament for some twelve years, and had been a tory whip part of the time. then he paused, his eyes on the grass, till he raised them to say abruptly: "you heard about it all--from radowitz?" she nodded. "he came here that same night." and then suddenly, in the golden light, he saw her flush vividly. had she realised that what she had said implied a good deal?--or might be thought to imply it? why should radowitz take the trouble, after his long and exhausting experience, to come round by the scarfedale manor-house? "it was an awful time for him," he said, his eyes on hers. "it was very strange that he should be there." she hesitated. her lips trembled. "he was very glad to be there. only he was sorry--for you." "you mean he was sorry that i wasn't there sooner--with my father?" "i think that was what he felt--that there was only a stranger." "i was just in time," said falloden slowly. "and i wonder--whether anything matters, to the dying?" there was a pause, after which he added, with sudden energy-- "i thought--at the inquest--he himself looked pretty bad." "otto radowitz?" constance covered her eyes with her hands a moment--a gesture of pain. "mr. sorell doesn't know what to do for him. he has been losing ground lately. the doctors say he ought to live in the open-air. he and mr. sorell talk of a cottage near oxford, where mr. sorell can go often and see him. but he can't live alone." as she spoke falloden's attention was diverted. he had raised his head and was looking across the lawn towards the garden entrance. there was the sound of a clicking latch. constance turned, and saw radowitz entering. the young musician paused and wavered, at the sight of the two under the lime. it seemed as though he would have taken to flight. but, instead, he came on with hesitating step. he had taken off his hat, as he often did when walking; and his red-gold hair _en brosse_ was as conspicuous as ever. but otherwise what a change from the youth of three months before! falloden, now that the immediate pressure of his own tragedy was relaxed, perceived the change even more sharply than he had done at the inquest; perceived it, at first with horror, and then with a wild sense of recoil and denial, as though some hovering erinys advanced with radowitz over the leaf-strewn grass. radowitz grew paler still as he reached connie. he gave falloden a short, embarrassed greeting, and then subsided into the chair that constance offered him. the thought crossed falloden's mind--"did she arrange this?" her face gave little clue--though she could not restrain one quick, hesitating glance at falloden. she pressed tea on radowitz, who accepted it to please her, and then, schooled as she was in all the minor social arts, she had soon succeeded in establishing a sort of small talk among the three. falloden, self-conscious, and on the rack, could not imagine why he stayed. but this languid boy had ministered to his dying father! and to what, and to whom, were the languor, the tragic physical change due? he stayed--in purgatory--looking out for any chance to escape. "did you walk all the way?" the note in connie's voice was softly reproachful. "why, it's only three miles!" said radowitz, as though defending himself, but he spoke with an accent of depression. and connie remembered how, in the early days of his recovery from his injury, he had spent hours rambling over the moors by himself, or with sorell. her heart yearned to him. she would have liked to take his poor hands in hers, and talk to him tenderly like a sister. but there was that other dark face, and those other eyes opposite--watching. and to them too, her young sympathy went out--how differently!--how passionately! a kind of rending and widening process seemed to be going on within her own nature. veils were falling between her and life; and feelings, deeper and stronger than any she had ever known, were fast developing the woman in the girl. how to heal radowitz!--how to comfort falloden! her mind ached under the feelings that filled it--feelings wholly disinterested and pure. "you really are taking the boar's hill cottage?" she asked, addressing radowitz. "i think so. it is nearly settled. but i am trying to find some companion. sorell can only come occasionally." as he spoke, a wild idea flashed into falloden's brain. it seemed to have entered without--or against--his will; as though suggested by some imperious agency outside himself. his intelligence laughed at it. something else in him entertained it--breathlessly. radowitz stooped down to try and tempt lady marcia's dachshund with a piece of cake. "i must anyhow have a dog," he said, as the pampered max accepted the cake, and laid his head gratefully on the donor's knee; "they're always company." he looked wistfully into the dog's large, friendly eyes. connie rose. "please don't move!" she said, flushing. "i shall be back directly. but i must put up a letter. i hear the postman!" she ran over the grass, leaving the two men in acute discomfort. falloden thought again, with rising excitement: "she planned it! she wants me to do something--to take some step--but what?" an awkward pause followed. radowitz was still playing with the dog, caressing its beautiful head with his uninjured hand, and talking to it in a half whisper. as constance departed, a bright and feverish red had rushed into his cheeks; but it had only made his aspect more ghostly, more unreal. again the absurd idea emerged in falloden's consciousness; and this time it seemed to find its own expression, and to be merely making use of his voice, which he heard as though it were some one else's. he bent over towards radowitz. "would you care to share the cottage with me?" he said abruptly. "i want to find a place to read in--out of oxford." radowitz looked up, amazed--speechless! falloden's eyes met otto's steadily. the boy turned away. suddenly he covered his face with his free hand. "why did you hate me so?" he said, breathing quickly. "what had i done to you?" "i didn't hate you," said falloden thickly. "i was mad." "because you were jealous? what a fool you were! she never cared a brass farthing for me--except as she, does now. she would like to nurse me--and give me back my music. but she can't--and you can't." there was silence again. otto's chest heaved. as far as he could with his one hand, he hid the tears in his eyes from his companion. and at last he shook off emotion--with a laugh in which there was no mirth. "well, at least, i shouldn't make such a row now as i used to do--practising." falloden understood his reference to the soda-water bottle fusillade, by which the "bloods," in their first attack upon him, had tried to silence his piano. "can't you play at all?" he said at last, choosing the easiest of several remarks that presented themselves. "i get about somehow on the keys. it's better than nothing. and i'm writing something for my degree. it's rather good. if i could only keep well!" said the boy impatiently. "it's this damned health that gets in the way." then he threw himself back in his chair, all the melancholy of his face suddenly breaking up, the eyes sparkling. "suppose i set up one of those automatic pianos they're now talking about--could you stand that?" "i would have a room where i didn't hear it. that would be all right." "there's a wonderful idea i heard of from paris a week or two ago," said otto excitedly--"a marvellous electric invention a man's at work on, where you only turn a handle, or press a button, and you get rubinstein--or madame schumann or my country-man, paderewski, who's going to beat everybody. it isn't finished yet. but it won't be for the likes of me. it'll cost at least a thousand pounds." "they'll get cheaper," said falloden, his chin in his hands, elbows on knees, and eyes fixed on his companion. it seemed to him he was talking in a dream, so strange was this thing he had proposed; which apparently was going to come to pass. at any rate radowitz had not refused. he sat with the dachshund on his knees, alternately pulling out and folding its long ears. he seemed to be, all in a moment, in high spirits, and when he saw connie coming back through the garden gate, with a shy, hesitating step, he sprang up eagerly to greet her. but there was another figure behind her. it was sorell; and at sight of him "something sealed" the boy's lips. he looked round at falloden, and dropped back into his chair. falloden rose from his seat abruptly. a formal and scarcely perceptible greeting passed between him and sorell. all falloden's irritable self-consciousness rushed back upon him as he recognised the st. cyprian tutor. he was not going to stay and cry _peccavi_ any more in the presence of a bloodless prig, for whom oxford was the world. but it was bitter to him all the same to leave him in possession of the garden and connie bledlow's company. "thank you--i must go," he said brusquely, as connie tried to detain him. "there is so much to do nowadays. i shall be leaving flood next week. the agent will be in charge." "leaving--for good?" she asked, in her appealing voice, as they stood apart. "probably--for good." "i don't know how to say--how sorry i am!" "thank you. but i am glad it's over. when you get back to oxford--i shall venture to come and call." "that's a promise," she said, smiling at him. "where will you be?" "ask otto radowitz! good-bye!" her start of surprise pleased him. he approached radowitz. "shall i hear from you?" he said stiffly. "certainly!" the boy looked up. "i will write to-morrow." * * * * * the garden door had no sooner closed on falloden than radowitz threw himself back, and went into a fit of laughter, curious, hollow laughter. sorell looked at him anxiously. "what's the meaning of that, otto?" "you'll laugh, when you hear! falloden and i are going to set up house together, in the cottage on boar's hill. he's going to read--and i'm to be allowed a piano, and a piano-player. queer, isn't it?" "my dear otto!" cried sorell, in dismay. "what on earth do you mean?" "well, he offered it--said he'd come and look after me. i don't know what possessed him--nor me either. i didn't exactly accept, but i shall accept. why shouldn't i?" "because falloden's the last person in the world to look after anybody--least of all, you!" said sorell with indignant energy. "but of course it's a joke! you mean it for a joke. if he proposed it, it was like his audacity. nobody would, who had a shred of delicacy. i suppose he wants to disarm public opinion!" radowitz looked oddly at sorell from under his finely marked eyebrows. "i don't believe he cares a hang for public opinion," he said slowly. "nor do i. if you could come, of course that would settle it. and if you won't come to see me, supposing falloden and i do share diggings, that settles it too. but you will come, old man--you will come!" and he nodded, smiling, at hid quasi-guardian. neither of them noticed connie. yet she had hung absorbed on their conversation, the breath fluttering on her parted lips. and when their talk paused, she bent forward, and laid her hand on sorell's arm: "let him!" she said pleadingly--"let him do it!" sorell looked at her in troubled perplexity. "let douglas falloden make some amends to his victim; if he can, and will. don't be so unkind as to prevent it!" that, he supposed, was what she meant. it seemed to him the mere sentimental unreason of the young girl, who will not believe that there is any irrevocableness in things at all, till life teaches her. radowitz too! what folly, what mistaken religiosity could make him dream of consenting to such a house-mate through this winter which might be his last! monstrous! what kind of qualities had falloden to fit him for such a task? all very well, indeed, that he should feel remorse! sorell hoped he might feel it a good deal more sharply yet. but that he should ease his remorse at otto's expense, by offering what he could never fulfil, and by taking the place of some one on whom otto could have really leaned--that seemed to sorell all of a piece with the man's egotism, his epicurean impatience of anything that permanently made him uncomfortable or unhappy. he put something of this into impetuous words as well as he could. but otto listened in silence. so did constance. and sorell presently felt that there was a secret bond between them. * * * * * before the aunts returned, the rectory pony-carriage came for radowitz, who was not strong enough to walk both ways. sorell and constance were left alone. sorell, observing her, was struck anew by the signs of change and development in her. it was as though her mother and her mother's soul showed through the girl's slighter temperament. the old satiric aloofness in connie's brown eyes, an expression all her own, and not her mother's, seemed to have slipped away; sorell missed it. ella risborough's sympathetic charm had replaced it, but with suggestions of hidden conflict and suffering, of which lady risborough's bright sweetness had known nothing. it was borne in upon him that, since her arrival in oxford, constance had gone through a great deal, and gone through it alone. for after all what had his efforts amounted to? what can a man friend do for a young girl in the fermenting years of her youth! and when the man friend knows very well that, but for an iron force upon himself, he himself would be among her lovers? sorell felt himself powerless--in all the greater matters--and was inclined to think that he deserved to be powerless. yet he had done his best; and through his greek lessons he humbly knew that he had helped her spiritual growth, just as the greek immortals had helped and chastened his own youth. they had been reading homer together--parts both of the "iliad" and the "odyssey"; and through "that ageless mouth of all the world," what splendid things had spoken to her!--hector's courage, and andromache's tenderness, the bitter sorrow of priam, the pity of achilles, mother love and wife love, death and the scorn of death. he had felt her glow and tremble in the grip of that supreme poetry; for himself he had found her the dearest and most responsive of pupils. but what use was anything, if after all, as radowitz vowed, she was in love with douglas falloden? the antagonism between the man of scroll's type--disinterested, pure-minded, poetic, and liable, often, in action to the scrupulosity which destroys action; and the men of falloden's type--strong, claimant, self-centred, arrogant, determined--is perennial. nor can a man of the one type ever understand the attraction for women of the other. sorell sat on impatiently in the darkening garden, hoping always that connie would explain, would confess; for he was certain that she had somehow schemed for this preposterous reconciliation--if it was a reconciliation. she wanted no doubt to heal falloden's conscience, and so to comfort her own. and she would sacrifice otto, if need be, in the process! he vowed to himself that he would prevent it, if he could. connie eyed him wistfully. confidences seemed to be on her very lips; and then stopped there. in the end she neither explained nor confessed. but when he was gone, she walked up and down the lawn under the evening sky, her hands behind her--passionately dreaming. she had never thought of any such plan as had actually sprung to light. and she understood sorell's opposition. all the same, her heart sang over it. when she had asked radowitz and douglas to meet, each unbeknown to the other, when she had sent away the kind old aunts and prepared it all, she had reckoned on powers of feeling in falloden, in which apparently only she and aunt marcia believed; and she had counted on the mystical and religious fervour she had long since discovered in radowitz. that night--after sir arthur's death--she had looked tremblingly into the boy's very soul, had perceived his wondering sense of a special message to him through what had happened, from a god who suffered and forgives. yes, she had tried to make peace. and she guessed--the tears blinding her as she walked--at the true meaning of falloden's sudden impulse, and otto's consent. falloden's was an impulse of repentance; and otto's had been an impulse of pardon, in the christian sense. "if i am to die, i will die at peace with him." was that the thought--the tragic and touching thought--in the boy's mind? as to falloden, could he do it?--could he rise to the height of what was offered him? she prayed he might; she believed he could. her whole being was aflame. douglas was no longer in love with her; that was clear. what matter, if he made peace with his own soul? as for her, she loved him with her whole heart, and meant to go on loving him, whatever any one might say. and that being so, she would of course never marry. could she ever make nora understand the situation? by letter, it was certainly useless to try! part iii chapter xvi constance bledlow stepped out of the bletchley train into the crowded oxford station. annette was behind her. as they made their way towards the luggage van, connie saw a beckoning hand and face. they belonged to nora hooper, and in another minute connie found herself taken possession of by her cousin. nora was deeply sunburnt. her colour was more garishly red and brown, her manner more trenchant than ever. at sight of connie her face flushed with a sudden smile, as though the owner of the face could not help it. yet they had only been a few minutes together before connie had discovered that, beneath the sunburn, there was a look of tension and distress, and that the young brown eyes, usually so bright and bold, were dulled with fatigue. but to notice such things in nora was only to be scorned. connie held her tongue. "can't you leave annette to bring the luggage, and let us walk up?" said nora. connie assented, and the two girls were soon in the long and generally crowded street leading to the cornmarket. nora gave rapidly a little necessary information. term had just begun, and oxford was "dreadfully full." she had got another job of copying work at the bodleian, for which she was being paid by the university press, and what with that and the work for her coming exam, she was "pretty driven." but that was what suited her. alice and her mother were "all right." "and uncle ewen?" said connie. nora paused a moment. "well, you won't think he looks any the better for his holiday," she said at last, with an attempt at a laugh. "and of course he's doing ten times too much work. hang work! i loathe work: i want to 'do nothing forever and ever.'" "why don't you set about it then?" laughed connie. "because--" nora began impetuously; and then shut her lips. she diverged to the subject of mr. pryce. they had not seen or heard anything of him for weeks, she said, till he had paid them an evening call, the night before, the first evening of the new term. connie interrupted. "oh, but that reminds me," she said eagerly, "i've got an awfully nice letter--to-day--from lord glaramara. mr. pryce is to go up and see him." nora whistled. "you have! well, that settles it. he'll now graciously allow himself to propose. and then we shall all pretend to be greatly astonished. alice will cry, and mother will say she 'never expected to lose her daughter so soon.' what a humbug everybody is!" said the child, bitterly, with more emphasis than grammar. "but suppose he doesn't get anything!" cried connie, alarmed at such a sudden jump from the possible to the certain. "oh, but he will! he's the kind of person that gets things," said nora contemptuously. "well, we wanted a bit of good news!" connie jumped at the opening. "dear nora!--have things been going wrong? you look awfully tired. do tell me!" nora checked herself at once. "oh, not much more than usual," she said repellently. "and what about you, connie? aren't you very bored to be coming back here, after all your grand times?" they had emerged into the corn. before them, was the old church of st. mary magdalen, and the modern pile of balliol. in the distance stretched the broad, over which the october evening was darkening fast; the sheldonian in the far distance, with its statued railing; and the gates of trinity on the left. the air was full of bells, and the streets of undergraduates; a stream of young men taking fresh possession, as it were, of the grey city, which was their own as soon as they chose to come back to it. the oxford damp, the oxford mist, was everywhere, pierced by lamps, and window-lights, and the last red of a stormy sunset. connie drew in her breath. "no, i am not sorry, i am very glad to be back--though my aunts have been great dears to me." "i'll bet anything annette isn't glad to be back--after the langmoors!" said nora grimly. connie laughed. "she'll soon settle in. what do you think?" she slipped her arm into her cousin's. "i'm coming down to breakfast!" "you're not! i never heard such nonsense! why should you?" connie sighed. "i think i must begin to do something." "do something! for goodness' sake, don't!" nora's voice was fierce. "i did think you might be trusted!" "to carry out your ideals? so kind of you!" "if you take to muddling about with books and lectures and wearing ugly clothes, i give you up," said nora firmly. "nora, dear, i'm the most shocking ignoramus. mayn't i learn something?" "mr. sorell may teach you greek. i don't mind that." connie sighed again, and nora stole a look at the small pale face under the sailor hat. it seemed to her that her cousin had somehow grown beautiful in these months of absence. on her arrival in may, connie's good looks had been a freakish and variable thing, which could be often and easily disputed. she could always make a certain brilliant or bizarre effect, by virtue of her mere slenderness and delicacy, combined with the startling beauty of her eyes and hair. but the touch of sarcasm, of a half-hostile remoteness, in her look and manner, were often enough to belie the otherwise delightful impression of first youth, to suggest something older and sharper than her twenty years had any right to be. it meant that she had been brought up in a world of elder people, sharing from her teens in its half-amused, half-sceptical judgments of men and things. nothing was to be seen of it in her roused moments of pleasure or enthusiasm; at other times it jarred, as though one caught a glimpse of autumn in the spring. but since she and nora had last met, something had happened. some heat of feeling or of sympathy had fused in her the elements of being; so that a more human richness and warmth, a deeper and tenderer charm breathed from her whole aspect. nora, though so much the younger, had hitherto been the comforter and sustainer of connie; now for the first time, the tired girl felt an impulse--firmly held back--to throw her arms round connie's neck and tell her own troubles. she did not betray it, however. there were so many things she wanted to know. first--how was it that connie had come back so soon? nora understood there were invitations to the tamworths and others. mr. sorell had reported that the langmoors wished to carry their niece with them on a round of country-house visits in the autumn, and that connie had firmly stuck to it that she was due at oxford for the beginning of term. "why didn't you go," said nora, half scoffing--"with all those frocks wasting in the drawers?" connie retorted that, as for parties, oxford, had seemed to her in the summer term the most gay and giddy place she had ever been in, and that she had always understood that in the october and lent terms people dined out every night. "but all the same--one can think a little here," she said slowly. "you didn't care a bit about that when you first came!" cried nora. "you despised us because we weren't soldiers, or diplomats, or politicians. you thought we were a little priggish, provincial world where nothing mattered. you were sorry for us because we had only books and ideas!" "i wasn't!" said connie indignantly. "only i didn't think oxford was everything--and it isn't! nora!"--she looked round the oxford street with a sudden ardour, her eyes running over the groups of undergraduates hurrying back to hall--"do you think these english boys could ever--well, fight--and die--for what you call ideas--for their country--as otto radowitz could die for poland?" "try them!" the reply rang out defiantly. connie laughed. "they'll never have the chance. who'll ever attack england? if we had only something--something splendid, and not too far away!--to look back upon, as the italians look back on garibaldi--or to long and to suffer for, as the poles long and suffer for poland!" "we shall some day!" said nora hopefully. "mr. sorell says every nation gets its turn to fight for its life. i suppose otto radowitz has been talking poland to you?" "he talks it--and he lives it," said connie, with emphasis. "it's marvellous!--it shames one." nora shrugged her shoulders. "but what can he do--with his poor hand! you know mr. sorell has taken a cottage for him at boar's hill--above hinksey?" yes, connie knew. she seemed suddenly on her guard. "but he can't live alone?" said nora. "who on earth's going to look after him?" connie hesitated. down a side street she perceived the stately front of marmion, and at the same moment a tall man emerging from the dusk crossed the street and entered the marmion gate. her heart leapt. no! absurd! he and otto had not arrived yet. but already the oxford dark, and the beautiful oxford distances were peopled for her with visions and prophecies of hope. the old and famous city, that had seen so much youth bloom and pass, spoke magic things to her with its wise, friendly voice. aloud, she said-- "you haven't heard? mr. falloden's going to live with him." nora stopped in stupefaction. "_what?_" connie repeated the information--adding-- "i dare say mr. sorell didn't speak of it to you, because--he hates it." "i suppose it's just a theatrical _coup_," said nora, passionately, as they walked on--"to impress the public." "it isn't!--it isn't anything of the kind. and otto had only to say no." "it's ridiculous!--preposterous! they'll clash all day long." connie replied with difficulty, as though she had so pondered and discussed this matter with herself that every opinion about it seemed equally reasonable. "i don't think so. otto wishes it." "but why--but _why_?" insisted nora. "oh, connie!--as if douglas falloden could look after anybody but himself!" then she repented a little. connie smiled, rather coldly. "he looked after his father," she said quietly. "i told you all that in my letters. and you forget how it was--that he and otto came across each other again." nora warmly declared that she had not forgotten it, but that it did not seem to her to have anything to do with the extraordinary proposal that the man more responsible than any one else for the maiming--possibly for the death--of otto radowitz, if all one heard about him were true, should be now installed as his companion and guardian during these critical months. she talked with obvious and rather angry common sense, as one who had not passed her eighteenth birthday for nothing. but connie fell silent. she would not discuss it, and nora was obliged to let the subject drop. * * * * * mrs. hooper, whose pinched face had grown visibly older, received her husband's niece with an evident wish to be kind. alice, too, was almost affectionate, and uncle ewen came hurrying out of his study to greet her. but connie had not been an hour in the house before she had perceived that everybody in it was preoccupied and unhappy; unless, indeed, it were alice, who had evidently private thoughts of her own, which, to a certain extent, released her from the family worries. what was the matter? she was determined to know. it happened that she and alice went up to bed together. nora had been closeted with her father in the little schoolroom on the ground floor, since nine o'clock, and when connie proposed to look in and wish them good night, alice said uncomfortably-- "better not. they're--they're very busy." connie ruminated. at the top of the stairs, she turned-- "look here--do come in to me, and have a talk!" alice agreed, after a moment's hesitation. there had never been any beginnings of intimacy between her and connie, and she took connie's advance awkwardly. the two girls were however soon seated in connie's room, where a blazing fire defied the sudden cold of a raw and bleak october. the light danced on alice's beady black eyes, and arched brows, on her thin but very red lips, on the bright patch of colour in each cheek. she was more than ever like a watteau sketch in black chalk, heightened with red, and the dress she wore, cut after the pattern of an eighteenth-century sacque, according to an oxford fashion of that day, fell in admirably with the natural effect. connie had very soon taken off her tea-gown, loosened and shaken out her hair, and put on a white garment in which she felt at ease. alice noticed, as nora had done, that connie was fast becoming a beauty; but whether the indisputable fact was to be welcomed or resented had still to be decided. connie had no sooner settled herself on the small sofa she had managed to fit into her room than she sprang up again. "stupid!--where are those letters!" she rummaged in various drawers and bags, hit upon what she wanted, after an impetuous hunt, and returned to the fire. "do you know i think mr. pryce has a good chance of that post? i got this to-day." she held out a letter, smiling. alice flushed and took it. it was from lord glaramara, and it concerned that same post in the conservative central office on which herbert pryce had had his eyes for some time. the man holding it had been "going" for months, but was now, at last, gone. the post was vacant, and connie, who had a pretty natural turn for wire-pulling, fostered by her italian bringing up, had been trying her hand, both with the chancellor and her uncle langmoor. "you little intriguer!" wrote lord glaramara--"i will do what i can. your man sounds very suitable. if he isn't, i can tell you plainly he won't get the post. neither political party can afford to employ fools just now. but if he is what you say--well, we shall see! send him up to see me, at the house of lords, almost any evening next week. he'll have to take his chance, of course, of finding me free. if i cotton to him, i'll send him on to somebody else. and--_don't talk about it!_ your letter was just like your mother. she had an art of doing these things!" alice read and reread the note. when she looked up from it, it was with a rather flustered face. "awfully good of you, connie! may i show it--to mr. pryce?" "yes--but get it back. tell him to write to lord glaramara to-morrow. well, now then"--connie discovered and lit a cigarette, the sight of which stirred in alice a kind of fascinated disapproval,--"now then, tell me what's the matter!--why uncle ewen looks as if he hadn't had a day's rest since last term, and nora's so glum--and why he and she go sitting up at night together when they ought to be in their beds?" connie's little woman-of-the-world air--very evident in this speech--which had always provoked alice in their earlier acquaintance, passed now unnoticed. miss hooper sat perplexed and hesitating, staring into the fire. but with that note in her pocket, alice felt herself at once in a new and detached position towards her family. "it's money, of course," she said at last, her white brow puckering. "it's not only bills--they're dreadfully worrying!--we seem never to get free from them, but it's something else--something quite new--which has only happened, lately. there is an old loan from the bank that has been going on for years. father had almost forgotten it, and now they're pressing him. it's dreadful. they know we're so hard up." connie in her turn looked perplexed. it was always difficult for her to realise financial trouble on a small scale. ruin on the falloden scale was intelligible to one who had heard much talk of the bankruptcies of some of the great roman families. but the carking care that may come from lack of a few hundred pounds, this the risboroughs' daughter had to learn; and she put her mind to it eagerly. she propped her small chin on her hands, while alice told her tale. apparently the improvement in the family finance, caused by connie's three hundred, had been the merest temporary thing. the reader's creditors had been held off for a few months; but the rain of tradesmen's letters had been lately incessant. and the situation had been greatly worsened by a blow which had fallen just before the opening of term. in a former crisis, five years before this date, a compassionate cousin, one of the few well-to-do relations that mrs. hooper possessed, had come to the rescue, and had given his name to the hoopers' bankers as guarantee for a loan of £ . the loan was to have been repaid by yearly instalments. but the instalments had not been paid, and the cousin had most unexpectedly died of apoplexy during september, after three days' illness. his heir would have nothing to say to the guarantee, and the bank was pressing for repayment, in terms made all the harsher by the existence of an overdraft, which the local manager knew in his financial conscience ought not to have been allowed. his letters were now so many sword-thrusts; and post-time was a time of terror. "father doesn't know what to do," said alice despondently. "he and nora spend all their time trying to think of some way out. father got his salary the other day, and never put it into the bank at all. we must have something to live on. none"--she hesitated--"none of the tradesmen will give us any credit." she flushed deeply over the confession. "goodness!" said connie, opening her eyes still wider. "but if nora knows that i've been telling you"--cried alice--"she'll never forgive me. she made me promise i wouldn't tell you. but how can you help knowing? if father's made a bankrupt, it wouldn't be very nice for you! how could you go on living with us? nora thinks she's going to earn money--that father can sell two wretched little books--and we can go and live in a tiny house on the cowley road--and--and--all sorts of absurd things!" "but why is it nora that has to settle all these things?" asked connie in bewilderment. "why doesn't your mother--" "oh, because mother doesn't know anything about the bills," interrupted alice. "she never can do a sum--or add up anything--and i'm no use at it either. nora took it all over last year, and she won't let even me help her. she makes out the most wonderful statements--she made out a fresh one to-day--that's why she had a headache when she came to meet you. but what's the good of statements? they won't pay the bank." "but why--why--" repeated connie, and then stopped, lest she should hurt alice's feelings. "why did we get into debt? i'm sure i don't know!" alice shook her head helplessly. "we never seemed to have anything extravagant." these things were beyond connie's understanding. she gave it up. but her mind impetuously ran forward. "how much is wanted altogether?" alice, reluctantly, named a sum not much short of a thousand pounds. "isn't it awful?" she sighed deeply. yet already she seemed to be talking of other people's affairs! "we can't ever do it. it's hopeless. papa's taken two little school-books to do. they'll kill him with work, and will hardly bring in anything. and he's full up with horrid exams and lectures. he'll break down, and it all makes him so miserable, because he can't really do the work the university pays him to do. and he's never been abroad--even to rome. and as to greece! it's dreadful!" she repeated mechanically. connie sprang up and began to pace the little room. the firelight played on her mop of brown hair, bringing out its golden shades, and on the charming pensiveness of her face. alice watched her, thinking "she could do it all, if she chose!" but she didn't dare to say anything, for fear of nora. presently connie gave a great stretch. "it's damnable!" she said, with energy. alice's instinct recoiled from the strong word. it wasn't the least necessary, she thought, to talk in that way. connie made a good many more enquiries--elicited a good many more facts. then suddenly she brought her pacing to a stop. "look here--we must go to bed!--or nora will be after us." alice went obediently. as soon as the door had shut upon her, connie went to a drawer in her writing table, and took out her bank-book. it had returned that morning and she had not troubled to look at it. there was always enough for what she wanted. heavens!--what a balance. she had quite forgotten a wind-fall which had come lately--some complicated transaction relating to a great industrial company in which she had shares and which had lately been giving birth to other subsidiary companies, and somehow the original shareholders, of whom lord risborough had been one, or their heirs and representatives, had profited greatly by the business. it had all been managed for her by her father's lawyer, and of course by uncle ewen. the money had been paid temporarily in to her own account, till the lawyer could make some enquiries about a fresh investment. but it was her own money. she was entitled to--under the terms of her father's letter to uncle ewen--to do what she liked with it. and even without it, there was enough in the bank. enough for this--and for another purpose also, which lay even closer to her heart. "i don't want any more new gowns for six months," she decided peremptorily. "it's disgusting to be so well off. well, now,--i wonder--i wonder where nora keeps those statements that alice talks about?" in the schoolroom of course. but not under lock and key. nobody ever locked drawers in that house. it was part of the general happy-go-luckishness of the family. connie made up the fire, and sat over it, thinking hard. a new cheque-book, too, had arrived with the bank-book. that was useful. she waited till she heard the schoolroom door open, and nora come upstairs, followed soon by the slow and weary step of uncle ewen. connie had already lowered her gas before nora reached the top landing. the house was very soon silent. connie turned her light on again, and waited. by the time big ben had struck one o'clock, she thought it would be safe to venture. she opened her door with trembling, careful fingers, slipped off her shoes, took a candle and stole downstairs. the schoolroom door creaked odiously. but soon she was inside and looking about her. there was nora's table, piled high with the books and note-books of her english literature work. everything else had been put away. but the top drawer of the table was unlocked. there was a key in it, but it would not turn, being out of repair, like so much else in the house. connie, full of qualms, slowly opened the drawer. it was horrid--horrid--to do such things!--but what other way was there? nora must be presented with the _fait accompli_, otherwise she would upset everything--poor old darling! some loose sheets lay on the top of the papers in the drawer. the first was covered with figures and calculations that told nothing. connie lifted it, and there, beneath, lay nora's latest "statement," at which she and her father had no doubt been working that very night. it was headed "list of liabilities," and in it every debt, headed by the bank claim which had broken the family back, was accurately and clearly stated in nora's best hand. the total at the foot evoked a low whistle from connie. how had it come about? in spite of her luxurious bringing up, there was a shrewd element--an element of competence--in the girl's developing character, which was inclined to suggest that there need be no more difficulty in living on seven hundred a year than seven thousand, if you knew you had to do it. then she rebuked herself fiercely for a prig--"you just try it!--you pharisee, you!" and she thought of her own dressmakers' and milliners' bills, and became in the end quite pitiful over aunt ellen's moderation. after all it might have been two thousand instead of one! of course it was all aunt ellen's muddling, and uncle ewen's absent-mindedness. she shaded her candle, and in a guilty hurry copied down the total on a slip of paper lying on the table, and took the address of uncle ewen's bank from the outside of the pass-book lying beside the bills. having done that, she closed the drawer again, and crept upstairs like the criminal she felt herself. her small feet in their thin stockings seemed to her excited ears to be making the most hideous and unnatural noise on every step. if nora heard! at last she was safe in her own room again. the door was locked, and the more agreeable part of the crime began. she drew out the new cheque-book lying in her own drawer, and very slowly and deliberately wrote a cheque. then she put it up, with a few covering words--anxiously considered--and addressed the envelope to the oxford branch of a well-known banking firm, her father's bankers, to which her own account had been transferred on her arrival at oxford. ewen hooper had scrupulously refrained from recommending his own bank, lest he should profit indirectly by his niece's wealth. "annette shall take it," she thought, "first thing. oh, what a row there'll be!" and then, uneasily pleased with her performance, she went to bed. and she had soon forgotten all about her raid upon uncle ewen's affairs. her thoughts floated to a little cottage on the hills, and its two coming inhabitants. and in her dream she seemed to hear herself say--"i oughtn't to be meddling with other people's lives like this. i don't know enough. i'm too young! i want somebody to show me--i do!" * * * * * the following day passed heavily in the hooper household. nora and her father were closeted together all the morning; and there was a sense of brooding calamity in the air. alice and connie avoided each other, and connie asked no questions. after luncheon sorell called. he found connie in the drawing-room alone, and gave her the news she was pining for. as nora had reported, a cottage on boar's hill had been taken. it belonged to the head of an oxford college, who had spent the preceding winter there for his health, but had now been ordered abroad. it was very small, pleasantly furnished, and had a glorious view over oxford in the hollow, the wooded lines of garsington and nuneham, and the distant ridges of the chilterns. radowitz was expected the following day, and his old college servant, with a woman to cook and do housework, had been found to look after him. he was working hard, at his symphony, and was on the whole much the same in health--very frail and often extremely irritable; with alternations of cheerfulness and depression. "and mr. falloden?" connie ventured. "he's coming soon--i didn't ask," said sorell shortly. "that arrangement won't last long." connie hesitated. "but don't wish it to fail!" she said piteously. "i think the sooner it is over the better," said sorell, with rather stern decision. "falloden ought never to have made the proposal, and it was mere caprice in otto to accept it. but you know what i think. i shall watch the whole thing very anxiously; and try to have some one ready to put into falloden's place--when it breaks down. mrs. mulholland and i have it in hand. she'll take otto up to the cottage to-morrow, and means to mother radowitz as much as he'll let her. now then"--he changed the subject with a smile--"are you going to enjoy your winter term?" his dark eyes, as she met them, were full of an anxious affection. "i have forgotten all my greek!" "oh no--not in a month. prepare me a hundred lines of the 'odyssey,' book vi.! next week i shall have some time. this first week is always a drive. miss nora says she'll go on again." "does she? she seems so--so busy." "ah, yes--she's got some work for the university press. plucky little thing! but she mustn't overdo it." connie dropped the subject. these conferences in the study, which had gone on all day, had nothing to do with nora's work for the press--that she was certain of. but she only said--holding out her hands, with the free gesture that was natural to her-- "i wish some one would give me the chance of 'overdoing it'! do set me to work--hard work! the sun never shines here." her eyes wandered petulantly to the rainy sky outside, and the high-walled college opposite. "southerner! wait till you see it shining on the virginia creeper in our garden quad. oxford is a dream in october!--just for a week or two, till the leaves fall. november is dreary, i admit. all the same--try and be happy!" he looked at her gravely and tenderly. she coloured a little as she withdrew her hands. "happy? that doesn't matter--does it? but perhaps for a change--one might try--" "try what?" "well!"--she laughed, but he thought there were tears in her eyes--"to do something--for somebody--occasionally." "ask mrs. mulholland! she has a genius for that kind of thing. teach some of her orphans!" "i couldn't! they'd find me out." sorell, rather puzzled, suggested that she might become a home student like nora, and go in for a literature or modern history certificate. connie, who was now sitting moodily over a grate with no fire in it, with her chin in her hands, only shook her head. "i don't know anything--i never learnt anything. and everybody here's so appallingly clever!" then she declared that she would go and have tea with the master of beaumont, and ask his advice. "he told me to learn something"--the tone was one of depression, passing into rebellion--"but i don't want to learn anything!--i want to do something!" sorell laughed at her. "learning is doing!" "that's what oxford people think," she said defiantly. "i don't agree with them." "what do you mean by 'doing'?" connie poked an imaginary fire. "making myself happy"--she said slowly, "and--and a few other people!" sorell laughed again. then rising to take his leave, he stooped over her. "make me happy by undoing that stroke of yours at boar's hill!" connie raised herself, and looked at him steadily. then gravely and decisively she shook her head. "not at all! i shall keep an eye on it!--so must you!" then, suddenly, she smiled--the softest, most radiant smile, as though some hope within, far within, looked out. it was gone in a moment, and sorell went his way; but as one who had been the spectator of an event. * * * * * after his departure connie sat on in the cold room, thinking about sorell. she was devoted to him--he was the noblest, dearest person. she wished dreadfully to please him. but she wasn't going to let him--well, what?--to let him interfere with that passionate purpose which seemed to be beating in her, and through her, like a living thing, though as yet she had but vaguely defined it even to herself. * * * * * after tea, which mrs. hooper dispensed with red eyes, and at which neither nora nor dr. hooper appeared, constance found a novel, and established herself in the deserted schoolroom. she couldn't go out. she was on the watch for a letter that might arrive. the two banks were only a stone's throw apart. the local post should deliver that letter about six. once nora looked in to find a document, and was astonished to see connie there. but she was evidently too harassed and miserable to talk. connie listened uneasily to the opening and shutting of a drawer, with which she was already acquainted. then nora disappeared again. what were they trying to do, poor dears!--nora, and uncle ewen? what could they do? the autumn evening darkened slowly. at last!--a ring and a double knock. the study door opened, and connie heard nora's step, and the click of the letter-box. the study door closed again. connie put down her novel and listened. her hands trembled. she was full indeed of qualms and compunctions. would they be angry with her? she had meant it well. footsteps approaching--not nora's. uncle ewen stood in the doorway--looking very pale and strained. "connie, would you mind coming into my study? something rather strange has happened." connie got up and slowly followed him across the hall. as she entered the study, she saw nora, with blazing eyes and cheeks, standing by her father's writing-table, aglow with anger or excitement--or both. she looked at connie as at an enemy, and connie flushed a bright pink. uncle ewen shut the door, and addressed his niece. "my dear connie, i want you, if you can--to throw some light on a letter i have just received. both nora and i suspect your hand in it. if so, you have done something i--i can't permit." he held out a letter, which connie took like a culprit. it was a communication from his oxford bankers to professor hooper, to the effect that, a sum of £ having been paid in to his credit by a person who desired to remain unknown, his debt to them was covered, and his account showed a balance of about six hundred pounds. "my dear!"--his voice and hand shook--"is that your doing?" "of course it is!" interrupted nora passionately. "look at her, father! how dared you, connie, do such a thing without a word to father! it's a shame--a disgrace! we could have found a way out--we could!" and the poor child, worn out with anxiety and lack of sleep, and in her sensitive pride and misery ready to turn on connie and rend her for having dared thus to play lady bountiful without warning or permission, sank into a chair, covered her face with her hands, and burst out sobbing. connie handed back the letter, and hung her head. "won't you--won't you let the person--who--sent the money remain unknown, uncle ewen?--as they wished to be?" uncle ewen sat down before his writing-table, and he also buried his face in his hands. connie stood between them--as it were a prisoner at the bar--looking now very white and childish. "dear uncle ewen--" "how did you guess?" said nora vehemently, uncovering her face--"i never said a word to you!" connie gave a tremulous laugh. "do you think i couldn't see that you were all dreadfully unhappy about something? i--i made alice tell me--" "alice is a sieve!" cried nora. "i knew, father, we could never trust her." "and then"--connie went on--"i--i did an awful thing. i'd better tell you. i came and looked at nora's papers--in the schoolroom drawer. i saw that." she pointed penitentially to a sheet of figures lying on the study table. both nora and her uncle looked up in amazement, staring at her. "it was at night," she said hurriedly--"last night. oh, i put it all back!"--she turned, pleading, to nora--"just as i found it. you shouldn't be angry with me--you shouldn't indeed!" then her own voice began to shake. she came and laid her hand on her uncle's shoulder. "dear uncle ewen--you know, i had that extra money! what did i want with it? just think--if it had been mamma! wouldn't you have let her help? you know you would! you couldn't have been so unkind. well then, i knew it would be no good, if i came and asked you--you wouldn't have let me. so i--well, i just did it!" ewen hooper rose from his table in great distress of mind. "but, my dear connie--you are my ward--and i am your guardian! how can i let you give me money?" "it's my own money," said connie firmly. "you know it is. father wrote to you to say i might spend it now, as i liked--all there was, except the capital of my two thousand a year, which i mayn't spend--till i am twenty-five. this has nothing to do with that. i'm quite free--and so are you. do you think"--she drew herself up indignantly--"that you're going to make me happy--by turning me out, and all--all of you going to rack and ruin--when i've got that silly money lying in the bank? i won't have it! i don't want to go and live in the cowley road! i won't go and live in the cowley road! you promised father and mother to look after me, uncle ewen, and it isn't looking after me--" "you can't reproach me on that score as much as i do myself!" said ewen hooper, with emotion. "there's something in that i admit--there's something in that." he began to pace the room. presently, pausing beside connie, he plunged into an agitated and incoherent account of the situation--of the efforts he had made to get even some temporary help--and of the failure of all of them. it was the confession of a weak and defeated man; and as made by a man of his age to a girl of connie's, it was extremely painful. nora hid her eyes again, and connie got paler and paler. at last she went up to him, holding out again appealing hands. "please don't tell me any more! it's all right. i just love you, uncle ewen--and--and nora! i want to help! it makes me happy. oh, why won't you let me!" he wavered. "you dear child!" there was a silence. then he resumed--as though feeling his way-- "it occurs to me that i might consult sorell. if he thought it right--if we could protect you from loss--!" connie sprang at him and kissed him in delight. "of course!--that'll do splendidly! mr. sorell will see, at once, it's the right thing for me, and my happiness. i can't be turned out--i really can't! so it's settled. yes--it's settled!--or it will be directly--and nobody need bother any more--need they? but--there's one condition." ewen hooper looked at her in silence. "that you--you and nora--go to borne this christmas time, this very christmas, uncle ewen! i think i put in enough--and i can give you such a lot of letters!" she laughed joyously, though she was very near crying. "i have never been able to go to home--or athens--never!" he said, in a low voice, as he sat down again at his table. all the thwarted hopes, all the sordid cares of years were in the quiet words. "well, now you're going!" said connie shyly. "oh, that would be ripping! you'll promise me that--you must, please!" silence again. she approached nora, timidly. "nora!" nora rose. her face was stained with tears. "it's all wrong," she said heavily--"it's all wrong. but--i give in. what i said was a lie. there is nothing else in the world that we could possibly do." and she rushed out of the room without another word. connie looked wistfully after her. nora's pain in receiving had stirred in her the shame-faced distress in giving that lives in generous souls. "why should i have more than they?" she stole out after nora. ewen hooper was left staring at the letter from his bankers, and trying to collect his thoughts. connie's voice was still in his ears. it had all the sweetness of his dead sister's. * * * * * connie was reading in her room before dinner. she had shut herself up there, feeling rather battered by the emotions of the afternoon, when she heard a knock that she knew was nora's. "come in!" nora appeared. she had had her storm of weeping in private and got over it. she was now quite composed, but the depression, the humiliation even, expressed in her whole bearing dismayed connie afresh. nora took a seat on the other side of the fire. connie eyed her uneasily. "are you ever going to forgive me, nora?" she said, at last. nora shrugged her shoulders. "you couldn't help it. i see that." "thank you," said connie meekly. "but what i can't forgive is that you never said a word--" "to you? that you might undo it all? nora, you really are an absurd person!" connie sprang up, and came to kneel by the fire, so that she might attack her cousin at close quarters. "we're told it's 'more blessed to give than to receive.' not when you're on the premises, nora! i really don't think you need make me feel such an outcast! i say--how many nights have you been awake lately?" nora's lip quivered a little. "that doesn't matter," she said shortly. "yes, but it does matter! you promised to be my friend--and--you have been treating me abominably!" said connie, with flashing eyes. nora feebly defended herself, but was soon reduced to accept a pair of arms thrown round her, and a soft shoulder on which to rest an aching head. "i'm no good," she said desparingly. "i give up--everything." "that's all right!" connie's tone was extremely cheerful. "which means, i hope, that you'll give up that absurd copying in the bodleian. you get about twopence halfpenny for it, and it'll cost you your first-class. how are you going to get a first i should like to know, with your head full of bills, and no sleep at nights?" nora flushed fiercely. "i want to earn my living--i mean to earn my living! and how do you know--after all"--she held connie at arm's length--"that mr. scroll's going to approve of what you've done? and father won't accept, unless he does." connie laughed. "mr. sorell will do--exactly what pleases me. mr. sorell"--she began to search for a cigarette--"mr. sorell is an angel." a silence. connie looked up, rather surprised. "don't you agree?" "yes," said nora in an odd voice. connie observed her. a flickering light began to play in the brown eyes. "h'm. have you been doing some greek already?--stealing a march on me?" "i had a lesson last week." "had you? the first i've heard of it!" connie fluttered up and down the room in her white dressing-gown, occasionally breaking into a dance-step, as though to work off a superfluity of spirits. finally she stopped in front of nora, looking her up and down. "i dare you to hide anything again from me, nora!" nora sat up. "there is nothing to hide," she said stiffly. connie laughed aloud; and nora suddenly sprang from her chair, and ran out of the room. connie was left panting a little. life in medburn house seemed certainly to be running faster than of old! "i never gave him leave to fall in love with nora!" she thought, with an unmistakable pang of common, ordinary jealousy. she had been so long accustomed to take her property in sorell for granted!--and the summer months had brought her into such intimate contact with him. "and he never made love to me for one moment!--nor i to him. i don't believe he's made love to nora--i'm sure he hasn't--yet. but why didn't he tell me of that greek lesson?" she stood before the glass, pulling down her hair, so that it fell all about her. "i seem to be rather cut out for fairy-godmothering!" she said pensively to the image in the glass. "but there's a good deal to do for the post!--one must admit there's a good deal to do--nora's got to be fixed up--and all the money business. and then--then!" she clasped her hands behind her head. her eyelids fell, and through her slight figure there ran a throb of yearning--of tender yet despairing passion. "if i could only mend things there, i might be some use. i don't want him to marry me--but just--just--" then her hands fell. she shook her head angrily. "you humbug!--you humbug! for whom are you posing now?" chapter xvii falloden had just finished a solitary luncheon in the little dining-room of the boar's hill cottage. there was a garden door in the room, and lighting a cigarette, he passed out through it to the terrace outside. a landscape lay before him, which has often been compared to that of the val d'arno seen from fiesole, and has indeed some common points with that incomparable mingling of man's best with the best of mountain and river. it was the last week of october, and the autumn was still warm and windless, as though there were no shrieking november to come. oxford, the beautiful city, with its domes and spires, lay in the hollow beneath the spectator, wreathed in thin mists of sunlit amethyst. behind that ridge in the middle distance ran the river and the nuneham woods; beyond rose the long blue line of the chilterns. in front of the cottage the ground sank through copse and field to the river level, the hedge lines all held by sentinel trees, to which the advancing autumn had given that significance the indiscriminate summer green denies. the gravely rounded elms with their golden caps, the scarlet of the beeches, the pale lemon-yellow of the nearly naked limes, the splendid blacks of yew and fir--they were all there, mingled in the autumn cup of misty sunshine like melting jewels. and among them, the enchanted city shone, fair and insubstantial, from the depth below; as it were, the spiritual word and voice of all the scene. falloden paced up and down the terrace, smoking and thinking. that was otto's open window. but radowitz had not yet appeared that morning, and the ex-scout, who acted butler and valet to the two men, had brought word that he would come down in the afternoon, but was not to be disturbed till then. "what lunacy made me do it?" thought falloden, standing still at the end of the terrace which fronted the view. he and radowitz had been nearly three weeks together. had he been of the slightest service or consolation to radowitz during that time? he doubted it. that incalculable impulse which had made him propose himself as otto's companion for the winter still persisted indeed. he was haunted still by a sense of being "under command"--directed--by a force which could not be repelled. ill at ease, unhappy, as he was, and conscious of being quite ineffective, whether as nurse or companion, unless radowitz proposed to "throw up," he knew that he himself should hold on; though why, he could scarcely have explained. but the divergences between them were great; the possibilities of friction many. falloden was astonished to find that he disliked otto's little fopperies and eccentricities quite as much as he had ever done in college days; his finicky dress, his foreign ways in eating, his tendency to boast about his music, his country, and his forebears, on his good days, balanced by a brooding irritability on his bad days. and he was conscious that his own ways and customs were no less teasing to radowitz; his tory habits of thought, his british contempt for vague sentimentalisms and heroics, for all that _panache_ means to the frenchman, or "glory" to the slav. "then why, in the name of common sense, are we living together?" he could really give no answer but the answer of "necessity"--of a spiritual need--issuing from a strange tangle of circumstance. the helpless form, the upturned face of his dying father, seemed to make the centre of it, and those faint last words, so sharply, and, as it were, dynamically connected with the hateful memory of otto's fall and cry in the marmion quad, and the hateful ever-present fact of his maimed life. constance too--his scene with her on the river bank--her letter, breaking with him--and then the soft, mysterious change in her--and that passionate, involuntary promise in her eyes and voice, as they stood together in her aunts' garden--all these various elements, bitter and sweet, were mingled in the influence which was shaping his own life. he wanted to forgive himself; and he wanted constance to forgive him, whether she married him or no. a kind of sublimated egotism, he said to himself, after all! but otto? what had really made him consent to take up daily life with the man to whom he owed his disaster? falloden seemed occasionally to be on the track of an explanation, which would then vanish and evade him. he was conscious, however, that here also, constance bledlow was somehow concerned; and, perhaps, the pole's mystical religion. he asked himself, indeed, as constance had already done, whether some presentiment of doom, together with the christian doctrines of forgiveness and vicarious suffering, were not at the root of it? there had been certain symptoms apparent during otto's last weeks at penfold known only to the old vicar, to himself and sorell. the doctors were not convinced yet of the presence of phthisis; but from various signs, falloden was inclined to think that the boy believed himself sentenced to the same death which had carried off his mother. was there then a kind of calculated charity in his act also--but aiming in his case at an eternal reward? "he wants to please god--and comfort constance--by forgiving me. i want to please her--and relieve myself, by doing something to make up to him. he has the best of it! but we are neither of us disinterested." * * * * * the manservant came out with a cup of coffee. "how is he!" said falloden, as he took it, glancing up at a still curtained window. the man hesitated. "well, i don't know, sir, i'm sure. he saw the doctor this morning, and told me afterwards not to disturb him till three o'clock. but he rang just now, and said i was to tell you that two ladies were coming to tea." "did he mention their names?" "not as i'm aware of, sir." falloden pondered a moment. "tell mr. radowitz, when he rings again, that i have gone down to the college ground for some football, and i shan't be back till after six. you're sure he doesn't want to see me?" "no, sir, i think not. he told me to leave the blind down, and not to come in again till he rang." falloden put on flannels, and ran down the field paths towards oxford and the marmion ground, which lay on the hither side of the river. here he took hard exercise for a couple of hours, walking on afterwards to his club in the high street, where he kept a change of clothes. he found some old marmion friends there, including robertson and meyrick, who asked him eagerly after radowitz. "better come and see," said falloden. "give you a bread and cheese luncheon any day." they got no more out of him. but his reticence made them visibly uneasy, and they both declared their intention of coming up the following day. in both men there was a certain indefinable change which falloden soon perceived. both seemed, at times, to be dragging a weight too heavy for their youth. at other times, they were just like other men of their age; but falloden, who knew them well, realised that they were both hag-ridden by remorse for what had happened in the summer. and indeed the attitude of a large part of the college towards them, and towards falloden, when at rare intervals he showed himself there, could hardly have been colder or more hostile. the "bloods" were broken up; the dons had set their faces steadily against any form of ragging; and the story of the maimed hand, of the wrecking of radowitz's career, together with sinister rumours as to his general health, had spread through oxford, magnifying as they went. falloden met it all with a haughty silence; and was but seldom seen in his old haunts. and presently it had become known, to the stupefaction of those who were aware of the earlier facts, that victim and tormentor, the injured and the offender, were living together in the boar's hill cottage where radowitz was finishing the composition required for his second musical examination, and falloden--having lost his father, his money and his prospects--was reading for a prize fellowship to be given by merton in december. * * * * * it was already moonlight when falloden began to climb the long hill again, which leads up from folly bridge to the height on which stood the cottage. but the autumn sunset was not long over, and in the mingled light all the rich colours of the fading woodland seemed to be suspended in, or fused with, the evening air. forms and distances, hedges, trees, moving figures, and distant buildings were marvellously though dimly glorified; and above the golds and reds and purples of the misty earth, shone broad and large--an achilles shield in heaven--the autumn moon, with one bright star beside it. suddenly, out of the twilight, falloden became aware of a pony-carriage descending the hill, and two ladies in it. his blood leapt. he recognised constance bledlow, and he supposed the other lady was mrs. mulholland. constance on her side knew in a moment from the bearing of his head and shoulders who was the tall man approaching them. she spoke hurriedly to mrs. mulholland. "do you mind if i stop and speak to mr. falloden?" mrs. mulholland shrugged her shoulders-- "do as you like, my dear. only don't expect me to be very forthcoming!" constance stopped the carriage, and bent forward. "mr. falloden!" he came up to her. connie introduced him to mrs. mulholland, who bowed coldly. "we have just been to see otto radowitz," said constance. "we found him--very sadly, to-day." her hesitating voice, with the note of wistful appeal in it, affected him strangely. "yes, it has been a bad day. i haven't seen him at all." "he gave us tea, and talked a great deal. he was rather excited; but he looked wretched. and why has he turned against his doctor?" "has he turned against his doctor?" falloden's tone was one of surprise. "i thought he liked him." "he said he was a croaker, and he wasn't going to let himself be depressed by anybody--doctor or no." falloden was silent. mrs. mulholland interposed. "perhaps you would like to walk a little way with mr. falloden? i can manage the pony." constance descended. falloden turned back with her towards oxford. the pony-carriage followed at some distance behind. then falloden talked freely. the presence of the light figure beside him, in its dark dress and close-fitting cap, seemed to thaw the chill of life. he began rapidly to pour out his own anxieties, his own sense of failure. "i am the last man in the world who ought to be looking after him; i know that as well as anybody," he said, with emphasis. "but what's to be done? sorell can't get away from college. and radowitz knows very few men intimately. neither meyrick nor robertson would be any better than i." "oh, not so good--not nearly so good!" exclaimed constance eagerly. "you don't know! he counts on you." falloden shook his head. "then he counts on a broken reed. i irritate and annoy him a hundred times a day." "oh, no, no--he does count on you," repeated connie in her soft, determined voice. "if you give up, he will be much--much worse off!" then she added after a moment--"don't give up! i--i ask you!" "then i shall stay." they moved on a few steps in silence, till connie said eagerly-- "have you any news from paris?" "yes; we wrote in the nick of time. the whole thing was just being given up for lack of funds. now i have told him he may spend what he pleases, so long as he does the thing." "please--mayn't i help?" "thank you. it's my affair." "it'll be very, very expensive." "i shall manage it." "it would be kinder"--her voice shook a little--"if i might help." he considered it--then said doubtfully: "suppose you provide the records?--the things it plays? i don't know anything about music--and i have been racking my brains to think of somebody in paris who could look after that part of it." constance exclaimed. why, she had several friends in paris, in the very thick of the musical world there! she had herself had lessons all one winter in paris at the conservatoire from a dear old fellow--a pole--a pupil of chopin in his youth, and in touch with the whole polish colony in paris, which was steeped in music. "he made love to me a little"--she said, laughing--"i'm sure he'd do anything for us. i'll write at once! and there is somebody at the embassy--why, of course, i can set all kinds of people to work!" and her feet began to dance along the road beside him. "we must get some polish music"--she went on--"there's that marvellous young pianist they rave about in paris--paderewski. i'm sure he'd help! otto has often talked to me about him. we must have lots of chopin--and liszt--though of course he wasn't a pole!--and polish national songs!--otto was only telling me to-day how chopin loved them--how he and liszt used to go about the villages and farms and note them down. oh, we'll have a wonderful collection!" her eyes shone in her small, flushed face. they walked on fast, talking and dreaming, till there was folly bridge in front of them, and the beginnings of oxford. falloden pulled up sharply. "i must run back to him. will you come again?" she held out her hand. the moonlight, shining on his powerful face and curly hair, stirred in her a sudden, acute sense of delight. "oh yes--we'll come again. but don't leave him!--don't, please, think of it! he trusts you--he leans on you." "it is kind of you to believe it. but i am no use!" he put her back into the carriage, bowed formally, and was gone, running up the hill at an athlete's pace. the two ladies drove silently on, and were soon among the movement and traffic of the oxford streets. connie's mind was steeped in passionate feeling. till now falloden had touched first her senses, then her pity. now in these painful and despondent attempts of his, to adjust himself to otto's weakness and irritability, he was stirring sympathies and enthusiasms in her which belonged to that deepest soul in connie which was just becoming conscious of itself. and all the more, perhaps, because in falloden's manner towards her there was nothing left of the lover. for the moment at any rate she preferred it so. life was all doubt, expectation, thrill--its colour heightened, its meanings underlined. and in her complete uncertainty as to what turn it would take, and how the doubt would end, lay the spell--the potent tormenting charm--of the situation. she was sorry, bitterly sorry for radowitz--the victim. but she loved falloden--the offender! it was the perennial injustice of passion, the eternal injustice of human things. * * * * * when falloden was half-way up the hill, he left the road, and took a short cut through fields, by a path which led him to the back of the cottage, where its sitting-room window opened on the garden and the view. as he approached the house, he saw that the sitting-room blinds had not been drawn, and some of the windows were still open. the whole room was brilliantly lit by fire and lamp. otto was there alone, sitting at the piano, with his back to the approaching spectator and the moonlit night outside. he was playing something with his left hand; falloden could see him plainly. suddenly, he saw the boy's figure collapse. he was still sitting, but his face was buried in his arm which was lying on the piano; and through the open window, falloden heard a sound which, muffled as it was, produced upon him a strange and horrible impression. it was a low cry, or groan--the voice of despair itself. falloden stood motionless. all he knew was that he would have given anything in the world to recall the past; to undo the events of that june evening in the marmion quadrangle. then, before otto could discover his presence, he went noiselessly round the corner of the house, and entered it by the front door. in the hall, he called loudly to the ex-scout, as he went upstairs, so that radowitz might know he had come back. when he returned, radowitz was sitting over the fire with sheets of scribbled music-paper on a small table before him. his eyes shone, his cheeks were feverishly bright. he turned with forced gaiety at the sight of falloden-- "well, did you meet them on the road?" "lady constance, and her friend? yes. i had a few words with them. how are you now? what did the doctor say to you?" "what on earth does it matter!" said radowitz impatiently. "he is just a fool--a young one--the worst sort--i can put up with the old ones. i know my own case a great deal better than he does." "does he want you to stop working?" falloden stood on the hearth, looking down on the huddled figure in the chair; himself broad and tall and curly-haired, like the divine odysseus, when athene had breathed ambrosial youth upon him. but he was pale, and his eyes frowned perpetually under his splendid brows. "some nonsense of that sort!" said radowitz. "don't let's talk about it." they went into dinner, and radowitz sent for champagne. "that's the only sensible thing the idiot said--that i might have that stuff whenever i liked." his spirits rose with the wine; and presently falloden could have thought what he had seen from the dark had been a mere illusion. a review in _the times_ of a book of polish memoirs served to let loose a flood of boastful talk, which jarred abominably on the englishman. under the oxford code, to boast in plain language of your ancestors, or your own performances, meant simply that you were an outsider, not sure of your footing. if a man really had ancestors, or more brains than other people, his neighbours saved him the trouble of talking about them. only the fools and the _parvenus_ trumpeted themselves; a process in any case not worth while, since it defeated its own ends. you might of course be as insolent or arrogant as you pleased; but only an idiot tried to explain why. in otto, however, there was the characteristic slav mingling of quick wits with streaks of childish vanity. he wanted passionately to make this tough englishman feel what a great country poland had been and would be again; what great people his ancestors had been; and what a leading part they had played in the national movements. and the more he hit against an answering stubbornness--or coolness--in falloden, the more he held forth. so that it was an uncomfortable dinner. and again falloden said to himself--"why did i do it? i am only in his way. i shall bore and chill him; and i don't seem to be able to help it." but after dinner, as the night frost grew sharper, and as otto sat over the fire, piling on the coal, falloden suddenly went and fetched a warm scotch plaid of his own. when he offered it, radowitz received it with surprise, and a little annoyance. "i am not the least cold--thank you!" but, presently, he had wrapped it round his knees; and some restraint had broken down in falloden. "isn't there a splendid church in cracow?" he asked casually, stretching himself, with his pipe, in a long chair on the opposite side of the fire. "one!--five or six!" cried otto indignantly. "but i expect you're thinking of panna marya. panna means lady. i tell you, you english haven't got anything to touch it!" "what's it like?--what date?" said falloden, laughing. "i don't know--i don't know anything about architecture. but it's glorious. it's all colour and stained glass--and magnificent tombs--like the gate of heaven," said the boy with ardour. "it's the church that every pole loves. some of my ancestors are buried there. and it's the church where, instead of a clock striking, the hours are given out by a watchman who plays a horn. he plays an old air--ever so old--we call it the 'heynal,' on the top of one of the towers. the only time i was ever in cracow i heard a man at a concert--a magnificent player--improvise on it. and it comes into one of chopin's sonatas." he began to hum under his breath a sweet wandering melody. and suddenly he sprang up, and ran to the piano. he played the air with his left hand, embroidering it with delicate arabesques and variations, catching a bass here and there with a flying touch, suggesting marvellously what had once been a rich and complete whole. the injured hand, which had that day been very painful, lay helpless in its sling; the other flashed over the piano, while the boy's blue eyes shone beneath his vivid frieze of hair. falloden, lying back in his chair, noticed the emaciation of the face, the hollow eyes, the contracted shoulders; and as he did so, he thought of the scene in the magdalen ballroom--the slender girl, wreathed in pearls, and the brilliant foreign youth--dancing, dancing, with all the eyes of the room upon them. presently, with a sound of impatience, radowitz left the piano. he could do nothing that he wanted to do. he stood at the window for some minutes looking out at the autumn moon, with his back to falloden. falloden took up one of the books he was at work on for his fellowship exam. when radowitz came back to the fire, however, white and shivering, he laid it down again, and once more made conversation. radowitz was at first unwilling to respond. but he was by nature _bavard_, and falloden played him with some skill. very soon he was talking fast and brilliantly again, about his artistic life in paris, his friends at the conservatoire or in the quartier latin; and so back to his childish days in poland, and the uprising in which the family estates near warsaw had been forfeited. falloden found it all very strange. the seething, artistic, revolutionary world which had produced otto was wholly foreign to him; and this patriotic passion for a dead country seemed to his english common sense a waste of force. but in otto's eyes poland was not dead; the white eagle, torn and blood-stained though she was, would mount the heavens again; and in those dark skies the stars were already rising! at eleven, falloden got up-- "i must go and swat. it was awfully jolly, what you've been telling me. i know a lot i didn't know before." a gleam of pleasure showed in the boy's sunken eyes. "i expect i'm a bore," he said, with a shrug; "and i'd better go to bed." falloden helped him carry up his books and papers. in otto's room, the windows were wide open, but there was a bright fire, and bateson, the ex-scout, was waiting to help him undress. falloden asked some questions about the doctor's orders. various things were wanted from oxford. he undertook to get them in the morning. when he came back to the sitting-room, he stood some time in a brown study. he wondered again whether he had any qualifications at all as a nurse. but he was inclined to think now that radowitz might be worse off without him; what constance had said seemed less unreal; and his effort of the evening, as he looked back on it, brought him a certain bitter satisfaction. * * * * * the following day, radowitz came downstairs with the course of the second movement of his symphony clear before him. he worked feverishly all day, now writing, now walking up and down, humming and thinking, now getting but of his piano--a beautiful instrument hired for the winter--all that his maimed state allowed him to get; and passing hour after hour, between an ecstasy of happy creation, and a state of impotent rage with his own helplessness. towards sunset he was worn out, and with tea beside him which he had been greedily drinking, he was sitting huddled over the fire, when he heard some one ride up to the front door. in another minute the sitting-room door opened, and a girl's figure in a riding habit appeared. "may i come in?" said connie, flushing rather pink. otto sprang up, and drew her in. his fatigue disappeared as though by magic. he seemed all gaiety and force. "come in! sit down and have some tea! i was so depressed five minutes ago--i was fit to kill myself. and now you make the room shine--you do come in like a goddess!" he busied himself excitedly in putting a chair for her, in relighting the spirit kettle, in blowing up the fire. constance meanwhile stood in some embarrassment with one hand on the back of a chair--a charming vision in her close fitting habit, and the same black _tricorne_ that she had worn in the lathom woods, at falloden's side. "i came to bring you a book, otto, the book we talked of yesterday." she held out a paper-covered volume. "but i mustn't stay." "oh, do stay!" he implored her. "don't bother about mrs. grundy. i'm so tired and so bored. anybody may visit an invalid. think this is a nursing home, and you're my daily visitor. falloden's miles away on a drag-hunt. ah, that's right!" he cried delightedly, as he saw that she had seated herself. "now you shall have some tea!" she let him provide her, watching him the while with slightly frowning brows. how ill he looked--how ill! her heart sank. "dear otto, how are you? you don't seem so well to-day." "i've been working myself to death. it won't come right--this beastly _andante_. it's too jerky--it wants _liaison_. and i can't hear it--i can't hear it!--that's the devilish part of it." and taking his helpless hand out of the sling in which it had been resting, he struck it bitterly against the arm of his chair. the tears came to connie's eyes. "don't!--you'll hurt yourself. it'll be all right--it'll be all right! you'll hear it in your mind." and bending forward under a sudden impulse, she took the maimed hand in her two hands--so small and soft--and lifting it tenderly she put her lips to it. he looked at her in amazement. "you do that--for me?" "yes. because you are a great artist--and a brave man!" she said, gulping. "you are not to despair. your music is in your soul--your brain. other people shall play it for you." he calmed down. "at least i am not deaf, like beethoven," he said, trying to please her. "that would have been worse. do you know, last night falloden and i had a glorious talk? he was awfully decent. he made me tell him all about poland and my people. he never scoffed once. he makes me do what the doctor says. and last night--when it was freezing cold--he brought a rug and wrapped it round me. think of that!"--he looked at her--half-shamefaced, half-laughing--"_falloden!_" her eyes shone. "i'm glad!" she said softly. "i'm glad!" "yes, but do you know why he's kind--why he's here at all?" he asked her abruptly. "what's the good of silly questions?" she said hastily. "take it as it comes." he laughed. "he does it--i'm going to say it!--yes, i am--and you are not to be angry--he does it because--simply--he's in love with you!" connie flushed again, more deeply, and he, already alarmed by his own boldness, looked at her nervously. "you are quite wrong." her tone was quiet, but decided. "he did it, first of all, because of what you did for his father--" "i did nothing!" interposed radowitz. she took no notice. "and secondly"--her voice shook a little--"because--he was sorry. now--now--he is doing it"--suddenly her smile flashed out, with its touch of humour--"just simply because he likes it!" it was a bold assertion. she knew it. but she straightened her slight shoulders, prepared to stick to it. radowitz shook his head. "and what am i doing it for? do you remember when i said to you i loathed him?" "no--not him." "well, something in him--the chief thing, it seemed to me then. i felt towards him really--as a man might feel towards his murderer--or the murderer of some one else, some innocent, helpless person who had given no offence. hatred--loathing--abhorrence!--you couldn't put it too strongly. well then,"--he began poking at the fire, while he went on thinking aloud--"god brought us together in that strange manner. by the way"--he turned to her--"are you a christian?" "i--i don't know. i suppose i am." "i am," he said firmly. "i am a practising catholic. catholicism with us poles is partly religion, partly patriotism--do you understand? i go to confession--i am a communicant. and for some time i couldn't go to communion at all. i always felt falloden's hand on my shoulder, as he was pushing me down the stairs; and i wanted to kill him!--just that! you know our polish blood runs hotter than yours. i didn't want the college to punish him. not at all. it was my affair. after i saw you in town, it grew worse--it was an obsession. when we first got to yorkshire, sorell and i, and i knew that falloden was only a few miles away, i never could get quit of it--of the thought that some day--somewhere--i should kill him. i never, if i could help it, crossed a certain boundary line that i had made for myself, between our side of the moor, and the side which belonged to the fallodens. i couldn't be sure of myself if i had come upon him unawares. oh, of course, he would soon have got the better of me--but there would have been a struggle--i should have attacked him--and i might have had a revolver. so for your sake"--he turned to look at her with his hollow blue eyes--"i kept away. then, one evening, i quite forgot all about it. i was thinking of the theme for the slow movement in my symphony, and i didn't notice where i was going. i walked on and on over the hill--and at last i heard a man groaning--and there was sir arthur by the stream. i saw at once that he was dying. there i sat, alone with him. he asked me not to leave him. he said something about douglas, 'poor douglas!' and when the horrible thing came back--the last time--he just whispered, 'pray!' and i said our catholic prayers that our priest had said when my mother died. then falloden came--just in time--and instead of wanting to kill him, i waited there, a little way off, and prayed hard for myself and him! queer, wasn't it? and afterwards--you know--i saw his mother. then the next day, i confessed to a dear old priest, who was very kind to me, and on the sunday he gave me communion. he said god had been very gracious to me; and i saw what he meant. that very week i had a hemorrhage, the first i ever had." connie gave a sudden, startled cry. he turned again to smile at her. "didn't you know? no, i believe no one knew, but sorell and the doctors. it was nothing. it's quite healed. but the strange thing was how extraordinarily happy i felt that week. i didn't hate falloden any more. it was as though a sharp thorn had gone from one's mind. it didn't last long of course, the queer ecstatic feeling. there was always my hand--and i got very low again. but something lasted; and when falloden said that extraordinary thing--i don't believe he meant to say it at all!--suggesting we should settle together for the winter--i knew that i must do it. it was a kind of miracle--one thing after another--driving us." his voice dropped. he remained gazing absently into the fire. "dear otto"--said constance softly--"you have forgiven him?" he smiled. "what does that matter? have you?" his eager eyes searched her face. she faltered under them. "he doesn't care whether i have or not." at that he laughed out. "doesn't he? i say, did you ask us both to come--on purpose--that afternoon?--in the garden?" she was silent. "it was bold of you!" he said, in the same laughing tone. "but it has answered. unless, of course, i bore him to death. i talk a lot of nonsense--i can't help it--and he bears it. and he says hard, horrid things, sometimes--and my blood boils--and i bear it. and i expect he wants to break off a hundred times a day--and so do i. yet here we stay. and it's you"--he raised his head deliberately--"it's you who are really at the bottom of it." constance rose trembling from her chair. "don't say any more, dear otto. i didn't mean any harm. i--i was so sorry for you both." he laughed again softly. "you've got to marry him!" he said triumphantly. "there!--you may go now. but you'll come again soon. i know you will!" she seemed to slip, to melt, out of the room. but he had a last vision of flushed cheeks, and half-reproachful eyes. chapter xviii on the day following constance's visit to the boar's hill cottage she wrote to radowitz:-- "dear otto,--i am going to ask you not to raise the subject you spoke of yesterday to me again between us. i am afraid i should find my visits a pain instead of a joy, if you did so. and mrs. mulholland and i want to come so much--sometimes alone, and sometimes together. we want to be mother and sister as much as we can, and you will let us! we know very well that we are poor painted things compared with real mothers and sisters. still we should love to do our best--_i_ should--if you'll let me!" to which otto replied:-- "dear constance,--(that's impudence, but you told me!)--i'll hold my tongue--though i warn you i shall only think the more. but you shan't have any cause to punish me by not coming. good heavens!--if you didn't come! "the coast is always clear here between two and four. i get my walk in the morning." two or three days a week accordingly, constance, or mrs. mulholland, or both took their way to the cottage. they did all that women with soft hearts can do for a sick man. mrs. mulholland managed the servants, and enquired into the food. connie brought books and flowers, and all the oxford gossip she could collect. their visit was the brightness of the boy's day, and thanks to them, many efforts were made to soften his calamity. the best musical talent that oxford could furnish was eager to serve him; and a well-known orchestra was only waiting for the completion of his symphony and the result of his examination to produce the symphony in the hall of marmion. meanwhile connie very rarely saw falloden--except in connection either with otto's health, or with the "orpheus," as to which falloden was in constant communication with the inventor, one auguste chaumart, living in a garret on the heights of montmartre; while constance herself was carrying on an eager correspondence with friends of her own or her parents, in paris, with regard to the "records" which were to make the repertory of the orpheus. the automatic piano--or piano-player--which some years later became the pianola, was in those days rapidly developing. the difference between it and the orpheus lay in the fact that the piano-player required hands and feet of flesh and blood for anything more than a purely mechanical rendering of the music provided by the rolls; while in the orpheus, expression, accent, interpretation, as given by the best pianists of the day, had been already registered in the cylinders. on the pianola, or what preceded it--then as now--the player provided his own rendering. but the orpheus, the precursor also of types that have since been greatly perfected, was played by an electrical mechanism, and the audience was intended to listen to chopin or beethoven, to schumann or brahms, as interpreted by the famous players of the moment, without any intervening personality. these things are very familiar to our generation. in the eighties, they were only a vision and a possibility, and falloden's lavish expenditure was in fact stimulating one of the first inventors. but connie also was playing an important part. both lord and lady risborough had possessed devoted friends in paris, and connie had made others of her own among the young folk with whom she had danced and flirted and talked during a happy spring with her parents in the avenue marceau. she had set these playfellows of hers to work, and with most brilliant success. otto's story, as told by her vivacious letters, had gone the round. no woman of twice her age could have told it more adroitly. otto appeared as the victim of an unfortunate accident in a college frolic; falloden as the guardian friend; herself, as his lieutenant. it touched the romantic sense, the generous heart of musical paris. there were many who remembered otto's father and mother and the musical promise of the bright-haired boy. the polish colony in paris, a survival from the tragic days of poland's exodus under the revolutionary skies of the thirties and the sixties, had been appealed to, and both polish and french musicians were already in communication with chaumart, and producing records under his direction. the young polish marvel of the day--paderewski--had been drawn in, and his renderings of chopin's finest work were to provide the bulk of the rolls. connie's dear old polish teacher, himself a composer, was at work on a grouping of folk-songs from poland and lithuania--the most characteristic utterance of a martyred people. "they are songs, _chère petite_," wrote the old man--"of revolt, of exile, and of death. there is no other folk-song like them in the world, just as there is no history in the world like poland's. your poor friend knows them all--has known them all from his childhood. they will speak to him of his torn country. he will hear in them the cry of the white eagle--the white eagle of poland--as she soars wounded and bleeding over the southern plains, or sinks dying into the marshes and forests of lithuania. it is in these songs that we poles listen to the very heart-beats of our outraged country. our songs--our music--our poets--our memories:--as a nation that is all we have--except the faith in us that never dies. _hinc surrectura!_ yes, she shall rise again, our poland! our hope is in god, and in the human heart, the human conscience, that he has made. comfort your friend. he has lost much, poor boy!--but he has still ears to hear, a brain, an imagination to conceive. let him work still for music and for poland--they will some day reward him!" and as a last contribution, a young french pianist, rising rapidly into fame both as a virtuoso and a composer, was writing specially a series of variations on the lovely theme of the "heynal"--that traditional horn-song, played every hour in the ears of cracow, from the tower of panna marya--of which otto had spoken to falloden. but all these things were as yet hidden from otto. falloden and constance corresponded about them, in letters that anybody might have read, which had behind them, nevertheless, a secret and growing force of emotion. even mrs. mulholland, who was rapidly endearing herself both to constance and radowitz, could only guess at what was going on, and when she did guess, held her tongue. but her relations with falloden, which at the beginning of his residence in the cottage had been of the coldest, gradually became less strained. to his own astonishment, he found the advice of this brusque elderly woman so important to him that he looked eagerly for her coming, and obeyed her with a docility which amazed himself and her. the advice concerned, of course, merely the small matters of daily life bearing on otto's health and comfort, and when the business was done, falloden disappeared. but strangely amenable, and even humble as he might appear in these affairs to those who remembered his haughty days in college, for both constance and mrs. mulholland quite another fact emerged from their experience of the cottage household during these weeks:--simply this--that whatever other people might do or be, falloden was steadily, and perhaps unconsciously, becoming master of the situation, the indispensable and protecting power of otto's life. how he did it remained obscure. but mrs. mulholland at least--out of a rich moral history--guessed that what they saw in the boar's hill cottage was simply the working out of the old spiritual paradox--that there is a yielding which is victory, and a surrender which is power. it seemed to her often that radowitz was living in a constant state of half-subdued excitement, produced by the strange realisation that he and his life had become so important to falloden that the differences of training and temperament between them, and all the little daily rubs, no longer counted; that he existed, so to speak, that falloden might--through him--escape the burden of his own remorse. the hard, strong, able man, so much older than himself in character, if not in years, the man who had bullied and despised him, was now becoming his servant, in the sense in which christ was the "servant" of his brethren. not with any conscious christian intention--far from it; but still under a kind of mysterious compulsion. the humblest duties, the most trivial anxieties, where radowitz was concerned, fell, week by week, increasingly to falloden's portion. a bad or a good night--appetite or no appetite--a book that otto liked--a visit that amused him--anything that for the moment contented the starved musical sense in otto, that brought out his gift, and his joy in it--anything that, for the moment, enabled him to forget and evade his injuries--these became, for falloden also, the leading events of his own day. he was reading hard for his fellowship, and satisfying various obscure needs by taking as much violent exercise as possible; but there was going on in him, all the time, an intense spiritual ferment, connected with constance bledlow on the one side, and otto radowitz on the other. meanwhile--what was not so evident to this large-hearted observer--otto was more than willing--he burned--to play his part. all that is mystical and passionate in the soul of a polish catholic, had been stirred in him by his accident, his growing premonition of short life, the bitterness of his calamity, the suddenness of his change of heart towards falloden. "my future is wrecked. i shall never live to be old. i shall never be a great musician. but i mean to live long enough to make constance happy! she shall talk of me to her children. and i shall watch over her--perhaps--from another world." these thoughts, and others like them, floated by day and night through the boy's mind; and he wove them into the symphony he was writing. tragedy, passion, melody--these have been the polish heritage in music; they breathe through the polish peasant songs, as through the genius of a chopin; they are bound up with the long agony of polish history, with the melancholy and monotony of the polish landscape. they spoke again through the beautiful thwarted gift of this boy of twenty, through his foreboding of early death, and through that instinctive exercise of his creative gift, which showed itself not in music alone, but in the shaping of two lives--falloden's and connie's. * * * * * and constance too was living and learning, with the intensity that comes of love and pity and compunction. she was dropping all her spoilt-child airs; and the bower-bird adornments, with which she had filled her little room in medburn house, had been gradually cleared away, to nora's great annoyance, till it was almost as bare as nora's own. amid the misty oxford streets, and the low-ceiled oxford rooms, she was played upon by the unseen influences of that "august place," where both the great and the forgotten dead are always at work, shaping the life of the present. in those days oxford was still praising "famous men and the fathers who begat" her. their shades still walked her streets. pusey was not long dead. newman, the mere ghost of himself, had just preached a tremulous last sermon within her bounds, returning as a kind of spiritual odysseus for a few passing hours to the place where he had once reigned as the most adored son of oxford. thomas hill green, with the rugged face, and the deep brown eyes, and the look that made pretence and cowardice ashamed, was dead, leaving a thought and a teaching behind him that his oxford will not let die. matthew arnold had yet some years to live and could occasionally be seen at balliol or at all souls; while christ church and balliol still represented the rival centres of that great feud between liberal and orthodox which had convulsed the university a generation before. in balliol, there sat a chubby-faced, quiet-eyed man, with very white hair, round whom the storms of orthodoxy had once beaten, like the surges on a lighthouse; and at christ church and in st. mary's the beautiful presence and the wonderful gift of liddon kept the old fires burning in pious hearts. and now into this old, old place, with its thick soil of dead lives and deeds, there had come a new seed, as to which no one could tell how it would flower. women students were increasing every term in oxford. groups of girl graduates in growing numbers went shyly through the streets, knowing that they had still to justify their presence in this hitherto closed world--made by men for men. there were many hostile eyes upon them, watching for mistakes. but all the generous forces in oxford were behind them. the ablest men in the university were teaching women how to administer--how to organise. some lecture-rooms were opening to them; some still entirely declined to admit them. and here and there were persons who had a clear vision of the future to which was trending this new eagerness of women to explore regions hitherto forbidden them in the house of life. connie had no such vision, but she had a boundless curiosity and a thrilling sense of great things stirring in the world. under nora's lead she had begun to make friends among the women students, and to find her way into their little bed-sitting-rooms at tea time. they all seemed to her superhumanly clever; and superhumanly modest. she had been brought up indeed by two scholars; but examinations dazzled and appalled her. how they were ever passed, she could not imagine. she looked at the girls who had passed them with awe, quite unconscious the while of the glamour she herself possessed for these untravelled students, as one familiar from her childhood with the sacred places of history--rome, athens, florence, venice, sicily. she had seen, she had trodden; and quiet eyes--sometimes spectacled--would flame, while her easy talk ran on. but all the time there were very critical notions in her, hidden deep down. "do they never think about a _man_?" some voice in her seemed to be asking. "as for me, i am always thinking about a man!" and the colour would flush into her cheeks, as she meekly asked for another cup of tea. sometimes she would go with nora to the bodleian, and sit patiently beside her while nora copied middle-english poetry from an early manuscript, worth a king's ransom. nora got sevenpence a "folio," of seventy-two words, for her work. connie thought the pay scandalous for so much learning; but nora laughed at her, and took far more pleasure in the small cheque she received at the end of term from the university press than connie in her quarterly dividends. but connie knew very well by this time that nora was not wholly absorbed in middle english. often, as they emerged from the bodleian to go home to lunch, they would come across sorell hurrying along the broad, his master's gown floating behind him. and he would turn his fine ascetic face towards them, and wave his hand to them from the other side of the street. and connie would flash a look at nora,--soft, quick, malicious--of which nora was well aware. but connie rarely said a word. she was handling the situation indeed with great discretion; though with an impetuous will. she herself had withdrawn from the greek lessons, on the plea that she was attending some english history lectures; that she must really find out who fought the battle of hastings; and was too lazy to do anything else. sometimes she would linger in the schoolroom till sorell arrived, and then he would look at her wistfully, when she prepared to depart, as though to say--"was this what i bargained for?" but she always laughed and went. and presently as she crossed the hall again, and heard animated voices in the schoolroom, her brown eyes would show a merry satisfaction. meanwhile nora was growing thinner and handsomer day by day. she was shedding awkwardness without any loss of that subacid sincerity that was her charm. connie, as much as she dared, took her dressing in hand. she was never allowed to give a thing; but annette's fingers were quick and clever, and nora's spartan garb was sometimes transformed by them under the orders of a coaxing or audacious constance. the mere lifting of the load of care had let the young plant shoot. so that many persons passing ewen hooper's second daughter in the street would turn round now to look at her in surprise. was that really the stout, podgy schoolgirl, who had already, by virtue of her strong personality, made a certain impression in the university town? people had been vaguely sorry for her; or vaguely thought of her as plain but good. alice of course was pretty; nora had the virtues. and now here she was, bursting into good looks more positive than her sister's. the girl's heart indeed was young at last, for the neighbourhood of connie was infectious. the fairy-godmothering of that young woman was going finely. it was the secret hope at the centre of her own life which was playing like captured sunshine upon all the persons about her. her energy was prodigious. everything to do with money matters had been practically settled between her and sorell and uncle ewen; and settled in connie's way, expressed no doubt in business form. and now she was insisting firmly on the holiday visit to rome, in spite of many protests from uncle ewen and nora. it was a promise, she declared. rome--rome--was their fate. she wrote endless letters, enquiring for rooms, and announcing their coming to her old friends. uncle ewen soon had the startled impression that all rome was waiting for them, and that they could never live up to it. finally, connie persuaded them to settle on rooms in a well-known small hotel, overlooking the garden-front of the palazzo barberini, where she had grown up. she wrote to the innkeeper, signor b., "a very old friend of mine," who replied that the "_amici_" of the "_distintissima signorina_" should be most tenderly looked after. as for the contessas and marchesas who wrote, eagerly promising their "dearest constance" that they would be kind to her relations, they were many; and when ewen hooper said nervously that it was clear he must take out both a frock-coat and dress clothes, constance laughed and said, "not at all!--signer b. will lend you any thing you want,"--a remark which, in the ears of the travellers to be, threw new and unexpected light on the functions of an italian innkeeper. meanwhile she piled up guide-books, she gathered maps; and she taught both her uncle and nora italian. and so long as she was busied with such matters she seemed the gayest of creatures, and would go singing and laughing about the house. in another old house in oxford, too, her coming made delight. she spent many long hours beside the master of beaumont's fire, gathering fresh light on the ways of scholarship and scholars. the quarrels of the learned had never hitherto come her way. her father had never quarrelled with anybody. but the master--poor great man!--had quarrelled with so many people! he had missed promotions which should have been his; he had made discoveries of which others had got the credit; and he kept a quite amazing stock of hatreds in some pocket of his vast intelligence. constance would listen at first to the expression of them in an awed silence. was it possible the world contained such mean and treacherous monsters? and why did it matter so much to a man who knew everything?--who held all the classics and all the renaissance in the hollow of his hand, to whom "latin was no more _difficile_, than to a blackbird 'tis to whistle"? then, gradually, she began to have the courage to laugh; to try a little soft teasing of her new friend and mentor, who was at once so wonderful and so absurd. and the master bore it well, could indeed never have too much of her company; while his white-haired sister beamed at the sight of her. she became the child of a childless house, and when lady langmoor sent her peremptory invitations to this or that country mansion where she would meet "some charming young men," connie would reply--"best thanks, dear aunt langmoor--but i am very happy here--and comfortably in love with a gentleman on the sunny side of seventy. please don't interfere!" only with herbert pryce was she ever thorny in these days. she could not forgive him that it was not till his appointment at the conservative central office, due to lord glaramara's influence, was actually signed and sealed that he proposed to alice. till the goods had been delivered, he never finally committed himself. even nora had underrated his prudence. but at last one evening he arrived at medburn house after dinner with the look of one whose mind is magnificently made up. by common consent, the drawing-room was abandoned to him and alice, and when they emerged, alice held her head triumphantly, and her lover was all jocosity and self-satisfaction. "she really is a dear little thing," he said complacently to connie, when the news had been told and excitement subsided. "we shall do capitally." "_enfin?_" said connie, with the old laugh in her eyes. "you are quite sure?" he looked at her uneasily. "it never does to hurry these things," he said, rather pompously. "i wanted to feel i could give her what she had a right to expect. we owe you a great deal, lady constance--or--perhaps now--i may call you constance?" constance winced, and pointedly avoided giving him leave. but for alice's sake, she held her tongue. the wedding was to be hurried on, and mrs. hooper, able for once to buy new frocks with a clear conscience, and possessed of the money to pay for them, was made so happy by the bustle of the trousseau that she fell in love with her prospective son-in-law as the cause of it. ewen hooper meanwhile watched him with mildly shrewd eyes, deciding once more in his inner mind that mathematicians were an inferior race. not even to nora--only to mrs. mulholland, did constance ever lift the veil, during these months. she was not long in succumbing to the queer charm of that lovable and shapeless person; and in the little drawing-room in st. giles, the girl of twenty would spend winter evenings, at the feet of her new friend, passing through various stages of confession; till one night, mrs. mulholland lifted the small face, with her own large hand, and looked mockingly into the brown eyes: "out with it, my dear! you are in love with douglas falloden!" connie said nothing. her little chin did not withdraw itself, nor did her eyes drop. but a film of tears rushed into them. the truth was that in this dark wintry oxford, and its neighbouring country, there lurked a magic for connie which in the high summer pomps it had never possessed. once or twice, in the distance of a winding street--on some football ground in the parks--in the gallery of st. mary's on sunday, constance caught sight, herself unseen, of the tall figure and the curly head. such glimpses made the fever of her young life. they meant far more to passion than her occasional meetings with falloden at the boar's hill cottage. and there were other points of contact. at the end of november, for instance, came the merton fellowship. falloden won it, in a brilliant field; and connie contrived to know all she wanted to know as to his papers, and his rivals. after the announcement of his success, she trod on air. finally she allowed herself to send him a little note of congratulation--very short and almost formal. he replied in the same tone. two days later, falloden went over to paris to see for himself the condition of the orpheus, and to arrange for its transport to england. he was away for nearly a week, and on his return called at once in holywell, to report his visit. nora was with connie in the drawing-room when he was announced; and a peremptory look forbade her to slip away. she sat listening to the conversation. was this really douglas falloden--this grave, courteous man--without a trace of the "blood" upon him? he seemed to her years older than he had been in may, and related, for the first time, to the practical every-day world. this absorption too in otto radowitz and his affairs--incredible! he and connie first eagerly discussed certain domestic details of the cottage--the cook, the food, the draughts, the arrangements to be made for otto's open-air treatment which the doctors were now insisting on--with an anxious minuteness! nora could hardly keep her face straight in the distance--they were so like a pair of crooning housewives. then he began on his french visit, sitting sideways on his chair, his elbow on the back of it, and his hand thrust into his curly mass of hair--handsomer, thought nora, than ever. and there was connie listening spell-bound in a low chair opposite, her delicate pale profile distinct against the dark panelling of the room, her eyes fixed on him. nora's perplexed eyes travelled from one to the other. as to the story of the orpheus and its inventor, both girls hung upon it. falloden had tracked auguste chaumart to his garret in montmartre, and had found in him one of those marvellous french workmen, inheritors of the finest technical tradition in the world, who are the true sons of the men who built and furnished and carved versailles, and thereby revolutionised the minor arts of europe. a small pinched fellow!--with a sickly wife and children sharing his tiny workshop, and a brain teeming with inventions, of which the electric piano, forerunner of the welte-mignons of later days, was but the chief among many. he had spent a fortune upon it, could get no capitalist to believe in it, and no firm to take it up. then falloden's astonishing letter and offer of funds, based on radowitz's report--itself the echo of a couple of letters from paris--had encouraged the starving dreamer to go on. falloden reproduced the scene, as described to him by the chief actor in it, when the inventor announced to his family that the thing was accomplished, the mechanism perfect, and how that very night they should hear chopin's great fantasia, op. , played by its invisible hands. the moment came. wife and children gathered, breathless. chaumart turned on the current, released the machinery. "_ecoutez, mes enfants! ecoutez, henriette_!" they listened--with ears, with eyes, with every faculty strained to its utmost. and nothing happened!--positively nothing--beyond a few wheezing or creaking sounds. the haggard inventor in despair chased everybody out of the room, and sat looking at the thing, wondering whether to smash it, or kill himself. then an idea struck him. in feverish haste he took the whole mechanism to pieces again, sitting up all night. and as the morning sun rose, he discovered in the very heart of the creature, to which by now he attributed an uncanny and independent life, the most elementary blunder--a vital connection missed between the power-supplying mechanism and the cylinders containing the records. he set it right; and nearly dead with fatigue and excitement, unlocked his door, and called his family back. then what triumph! what falling on each other's necks--and what a _déjeuner_ in the palais royal--children and all--paid for by the inventor's last napoleon! all this falloden told, and told well. connie could not restrain her pleasure as he came to the end of his tale. she clapped her hands in delight. "and when--when will it come!" "i think christmas will see it here. i've only told you half--and the lesser half. it's you that have done most--far the most." and he took out a little note-book, running through the list of visits he had paid to her friends and correspondents in paris, among whom the rolls were being collected, under chaumart's direction. the orpheus already had a large musical library of its own--renderings by some of the finest artists of some of the noblest music. beethoven, bach, liszt, chopin, brahms, schumann--all otto's favourite things, as far as connie had been able to discover them, were in the catalogue. suddenly, her eyes filled with tears. she put down the note-book, and spoke in a low voice, as though her girlish joy in their common secret had suddenly dropped. "it must give him some pleasure--it must!" she said, slowly, but as though she asked a question. falloden did not reply immediately. he rose from his seat. nora, under a quick impulse, gathered up a letter she had been writing, and slipped out of the room. "at least"--he looked away from her, straight out of the window--"i suppose it will please him--that we tried to do something." "how is he--really?" he shrugged his shoulders. connie was standing, looking down, one hand on her chair. the afternoon had darkened; he could see only her white brow, and the wealth of her hair which the small head carried so lightly. her childishness, her nearness, made his heart beat. suddenly she lifted her eyes. "do you know"--it seemed to him her voice choked a little--"how much--you matter to him? mrs. mulholland and i couldn't keep him cheerful while you were away." he laughed. "well, i have only just escaped a catastrophe to-day." she looked alarmed. "how?" "i offended bateson, and he gave notice!" connie's "oh!" was a sound of consternation. bateson, the ex-scout had become a most efficient and comfortable valet, and otto depended greatly upon him. "it's all right," said falloden quickly. "i grovelled. i ate all the humble-pie i could think of. it was of course impossible to let him go. otto can't do without him. i seem somehow to have offended his dignity." "they have so much!" said connie, laughing, but rather unsteadily. "one lives and learns." the tone of the words was serious--a little anxious. then the speaker took up his hat. "but i'm not good at managing touchy people. good night." her hand passed into his. the little fingers were cold; he could not help enclosing them in a warm, clinging grasp. the firelit room, the dark street outside, and the footsteps of the passers-by--they all melted from consciousness. they only saw and heard each other. in another minute the outer door had closed behind them. connie was left still in the same attitude, one hand on the chair, her head drooping, her heart in a dream. falloden ran through the streets, choosing the by-ways rather than the thoroughfares. the air was frosty, the december sky clear and starlit, above the blue or purple haze, pierced with lights, that filled the lower air; through which the college fronts, the distant spires and domes showed vaguely--as beautiful "suggestions"--"notes"--from which all detail had disappeared. he was soon on folly bridge, and hurrying up the hill he pushed straight on over the brow to the berkshire side, leaving the cottage to his right. fold after fold of dim wooded country fell away to the south of the ridge; bare branching trees were all about him; a patch of open common in front where bushes of winter-blossoming gorse defied the dusk. it was the english winter at its loveliest--still, patient, expectant--rich in beauties of its own that summer knows nothing of. but falloden was blind to it. his pulses were full of riot. she had been so near to him--and yet so far away--so sweet, yet so defensive. his whole nature cried out fiercely for her. "i want her!--_i want her!_ and i believe she wants me. she's not afraid of me now--she turns to me. what keeps us apart? nothing that ought to weigh for a moment against our double happiness!" he turned and walked stormily homewards. then as he saw the roof and white walls of the cottage through the trees his mood wavered--and fell. there was a life there which he had injured--a life that now depended on him. he knew that, more intimately than connie knew it, often as he had denied it to her. and he was more convinced than otto himself--though never by word or manner had he ever admitted it for a moment--that the boy was doomed--not immediately, but after one of those pitiful struggles which have their lulls and pauses, but tend all the same inevitably to one end. "and as long as he lives, i shall look after him," he thought, feeling that strange compulsion on him again, and yielding to it with mingled eagerness and despair. for how could he saddle connie's life with such a charge--or darken it with such a tragedy? impossible! but that was only one of many reasons why he should not take advantage of her through their common pity for otto. in his own eyes he was a ruined man, and having resolutely refused to live upon his mother, his pride was little more inclined to live upon a wife, common, and generally applauded, though the practice might be. about five thousand pounds had been saved for himself out of the wreck; of which he would certainly spend a thousand, before all was done, on the orpheus. the rest would just suffice to launch him as a barrister. his mother would provide for the younger children. her best jewels indeed had been already sold and invested as a dowry for nelly, who showed signs of engaging herself to a scotch laird. but falloden was joint guardian of trix and roger, and must keep a watchful eye on them, now that his mother's soft incompetence had been more plainly revealed than ever by her widow-hood. he chafed under the duties imposed, and yet fulfilled them--anxiously and well--to the amazement of his relations. in addition he had his way to make in the world. but constance had only to be a little more seen and known in english society to make the most brilliant match that any scheming chaperon could desire, falloden was aware through every pulse of her fast developing beauty. and although no great heiress, as heiresses now go, she would ultimately inherit a large amount of scattered money, in addition to what she already possessed. the langmoors would certainly have her out of oxford at the earliest possible moment--and small blame to them. in all this he reasoned as a man of his class and antecedents was likely to reason--only with a bias against himself. to capture connie, through otto, before she had had any other chances of marriage, seemed to him a mean and dishonorable thing. if he had only time--time to make his career! but there would be no time given him. as soon as her risborough relations got hold of her, constance would marry directly. he went back to the cottage in a sombre mood. then, as otto proved to be in the same condition, falloden had to shake off his own depression as quickly as possible, and spend the evening in amusing and distracting the invalid. * * * * * but fortune, which had no doubt enjoyed the nips she had inflicted on so tempting a victim, was as determined as before to take her own capricious way. by this time it was the last week of term, and a sharp frost had set in over the thames valley. the floods were out north and south of the city, and a bright winter sun shone all day over the glistening ice-plains, and the throng of skaters. at the beginning of the frost came the news of otto's success in his musical examination; and at a convocation, held shortly after it, he put on his gown as bachelor of music. the convocation house was crowded to see him admitted to his degree; and the impression produced, as he made his way through the throng towards the vice-chancellor, by the frail, boyish figure, the startling red-gold hair, the black sling, and the haunting eyes, was long remembered in oxford. then sorell claimed him, and hurried him up to london for doctors and consultations since the effort of the examination had left him much exhausted. meanwhile the frost held, and all oxford went skating. constance performed indifferently, and both nora and uncle ewen were bent upon improving her. but there were plenty of cavaliers to attend her, whenever she appeared, either on port meadow or the magdalen flood water; and her sound youth delighted physically in the exercise, in the play of the brisk air about her face, and the alternations of the bright winter day--from the pale blue of its morning skies, hung behind the snow-sprinkled towers and spires of oxford, down to the red of sunset, and the rise of those twilight mists which drew the fair city gently back into the bosom of the moonlit dark. but all the time the passionate sense in her watched and waited. the "mere living" was good--"yet was there better than it!" and on the second afternoon, out of the distance of magdalen meadow, a man came flying towards her as it seemed on the wings of the wind. falloden drew up beside her, hovering on his skates, a splendid vision in the dusk, ease and power in every look and movement. "let me take you a run with the wind," he said, holding out his hand. "you shan't come to any harm." her eyes and her happy flush betrayed her. she put her hand in his, and away they flew, up the course of the cherwell, through the flooded meadows. it seemed the very motion of gods; the world fell away. then, coming back, they saw magdalen tower, all silver and ebony under the rising moon, and the noble arch of the bridge. the world was all transmuted. connie's only hold on the kind, common earth seemed to lie in this strong hand to which she clung; and yet in that touch, that hold, lay the magic that was making life anew. but soon the wind had risen gustily, and was beating in her face, catching at her breath. "this is too cold for you!" said falloden abruptly; and wheeling round, he had soon guided her into a more sheltered place, and there, easily gliding up and down, soul and sense fused in one delight, they passed one of those hours for which there is no measure in our dull human time. they would not think of the past; they shrank from imagining the future. there were shadows and ghosts behind them, and ahead of them; but the sheer present mastered them. before they parted, falloden told his companion that the orpheus would arrive from paris the following day with a trio of french workmen to set it up. the electric installation was already in place. everything would be ready by the evening. the instrument was to be placed behind a screen in the built-out room, once a studio, which falloden had turned into a library. otto rarely or never went there. the room looked north, and he, whose well-being hung upon sunshine, disliked it. but there was no other place for the orpheus in the little cottage, and falloden who had been getting new and thick curtains for the windows, improving the fire-place, and adding some armchairs, was eagerly hopeful that he could turn it into a comfortable music-room for otto in the winter evenings, while he--if necessary--read his law elsewhere. "will you come for a rehearsal to-morrow?" he asked her. "otto comes back the day after." "no, no! i won't hear anything, not a note--till he comes! but is he strong enough?" she added wistfully. strong enough, she meant, to bear agitation and surprise. but falloden reported that sorell knew everything that was intended, and approved. otto had been very listless and depressed in town; a reaction no doubt from his spurt of work before the musical exam. sorell thought the pleasure of the gift might rouse him, and gild the return to oxford. chapter xix "have some tea, old man, and warm up," said falloden, on his knees before a fire already magnificent, which he was endeavouring to improve. "what do you keep such a climate for?" growled radowitz, as he hung shivering over the grate. sorell, who had come with the boy from the station, eyed him anxiously. the bright red patches on the boy's cheeks, and his dry, fevered look, his weakness and his depression, had revived the most sinister fears in the mind of the man who had originally lured him to oxford, and felt himself horribly responsible for what had happened there. yet the london doctors on the whole had been reassuring. the slight hemorrhage of the summer had had no successor; there were no further signs of active mischief; and for his general condition it was thought that the nervous shock of his accident, and the obstinate blood-poisoning which had followed it, might sufficiently account. the doctors, however, had pressed hard for sunshine and open-air--the riviera, sicily, or algiers. but the boy had said vehemently that he couldn't and wouldn't go alone, and who could go with him? a question that for the moment stopped the way. falloden's first bar examination was immediately ahead; sorell was tied to st. cyprian's; and every other companion so far proposed had been rejected with irritation. unluckily, on this day of his return, the oxford skies had put on again their characteristic winter gloom. the wonderful fortnight of frost and sun was over; tempests of wind and deluges of rain were drowning it fast in flood and thaw. the wind shrieked round the little cottage, and though it was little more than three o'clock, darkness was coming fast. falloden could not keep still. having made up the fire, he brought in a lamp himself; he drew the curtains, then undrew them again, apparently that he might examine a stretch of the oxford road just visible through the growing dark; or he wandered in and out of the room, his hands in his pockets whistling. otto watched him with a vague annoyance. he himself was horribly tired, and falloden's restlessness got on his nerves. at last falloden said abruptly, pausing in front of him-- "you'll have some visitors directly!" otto looked up. the gaiety in falloden's eyes informed him, and at the same time, wounded him. "lady constance?" he said, affecting indifference. "and mrs. mulholland. i believe i see their carriage." and falloden, peering into the stormy twilight, opened the garden door and passed out into the rain. otto remained motionless, bent over the fire. sorell was talking with the ex-scout in the dining-room, impressing on him certain medical directions. radowitz suddenly felt himself singularly forlorn, and deserted. of course, falloden and constance would marry. he always knew it. he would have served to keep them together, and give them opportunities of meeting, when they might have easily drifted entirely apart. he laughed to himself as he thought of connie's impassioned cry--"i shall never, never, marry him!" such are the vows of women. she would marry him; and then what would he, otto, matter to her or to falloden any longer? he would have been no doubt a useful peg and pretext; but he was not going to intrude on their future bliss. he thought he would go back to paris. one might as well die there as anywhere. there were murmurs of talk and laughter in the hall. he sat still, hugging his melancholy. but when the door opened, he rose quickly, instinctively; and, at the sight of the girl coming in so timidly behind mrs. mulholland, her eyes searching the half-lit room, and the smile, in them and on her lips, held back till she knew whether her poor friend could bear with smiles, otto's black hour began to lift. he let himself, at least, be welcomed and petted; and when fresh tea had been brought in, and the room was full of talk, he lay back in his chair, listening, the deep lines in his forehead gradually relaxing. he was better, he declared, a great deal better; in fact there was very little at all the matter with him. his symphony was to be given at the royal college of music early in the year. everybody had been awfully decent about it. and he had begun a nocturne that amused him. as for the doctors, he repeated petulantly that they were all fools--it was only a question of degree. he intended to manage his life as he pleased in spite of them. connie sat on a high stool near him while he talked. she seemed to be listening, but he once or twice thought, resentfully, that it was a perfunctory listening. he wondered what else she was thinking about. the tea was cleared away. and presently the three others had disappeared. otto and constance were left alone. "i have been reading so much about poland lately," said constance suddenly. "oh, otto, some day you must show me cracow!" his face darkened. "i shall never see cracow again. i shall never see it with you." "why not? let's dream!" the smiling tenderness in her eyes angered him. she was treating him like a child; she was so sure he never could--or never would--make love to her! "i shall never go to cracow," he said, with energy, "not even with you. i was to have gone--a year from now. it was all arranged. we have relations there--and i have friends there--musicians. the _chef d'orchestre_--at the opera house--he was one of my teachers in paris. before next year, i was to have written a concerto on some of our polish songs--there are scores of them that liszt and chopin never discovered. not only love-songs, mind you!--songs of revolution--battle-songs." his eyes lit up and he began to hum an air--to polish words--that even as given out in his small tenor voice stirred like a trumpet. "fine!" said constance. "ah, but you can't judge--you don't know the words. the words are splendid. it's 'ujejski's hymn'--the galician hymn of ' ." and he fell to intoning. "amid the smoke of our homes that burn, from the dust where our brothers lie bleeding-- our cry goes up to thee, oh god! "there!--that's something like it." and he ran on with a breathless translation of the famous dirge for the galician rebels of ' , in which a devastated land wails like rachel for her children. suddenly a sound rose--a sound reedy and clear, like a beautiful voice in the distance. "constance!" the lad sprang to his feet. constance laid hold on him. "listen, dear otto--listen a moment!" she held him fast, and breathing deep, he listened. the very melody he had just been humming rang out, from the same distant point; now pealing through the little house in a rich plenitude of sound, now delicate and plaintive as the chant of nuns in a quiet church, and finally crashing to a defiant and glorious close. "what is it?" he said, very pale, looking at her almost threateningly. "what have you been doing!" "it's our gift--our surprise--dear otto!" "where is it? let me go." "no!--sit down, and listen! let me listen with you. i've not heard it before! mr. falloden and i have been preparing it for months. isn't it wonderful? oh, dear otto!--if you only like it!" he sat down trembling, and hand in hand they listened. the "fantasia" ran on, dealing with song after song, now simply, now with rich embroidery and caprice. "who is it playing?" said otto, in a whisper. "it _was_ paderewski!" said constance between laughing and crying. "oh, otto, everybody's been at work for it!--everybody was so marvellously keen!" "in paris?" "yes--all your old friends--your teachers--and many others." she ran through the names. otto choked. he knew them all, and some of them were among the most illustrious in french music. but while connie was speaking, the stream of sound in the distance sank into gentleness, and in the silence a small voice arose, naïvely, pastorally sweet, like the shepherd's song in "tristan." otto buried his face in his hands. it was the "heynal," the watchman's horn-song from the towers of panna marya. once given, a magician caught it, played with it, pursued it, juggled with it, through a series of variations till, finally, a grave and beautiful modulation led back to the noble dirge of the beginning. "i know who wrote that!--who must have written it!" said otto, looking up. he named a french name. "i worked with him at the conservatoire for a year." constance nodded. "he did it for you," she said, her eyes full of tears. "he said you were the best pupil he ever had." the door opened, and mrs. mulholland's white head appeared, with falloden and sorell behind. "otto!" said mrs. mulholland, softly. he understood that she called him, and he went with her in bewilderment, along the passage to the studio. falloden came into the sitting-room and shut the door. "did he like it?" he asked, in a low voice, in which there was neither pleasure nor triumph. connie, who was still sitting on the stool by the fire with her face turned away, looked up. "oh, yes, yes!" she said in a kind of desperation, wringing her hands; "but why are some pleasures worse than pain--much worse?" falloden came up to her, and stood silently, his eyes on hers. "you see"--she went on, dashing tears away--"it is not his work--his playing! it can't do anything--can it, for his poor starved self?" falloden said nothing. but she knew that he felt with her. their scheme seemed to be lying in ruins; they were almost ashamed of it. then from the further room there came to their ears a prelude of chopin, played surely by more than mortal fingers--like the rustling of summer trees, under a summer wind. and suddenly they heard otto's laugh--a sound of delight. connie sprang up--her face transformed. "did you hear that? we have--we have--given him pleasure!" "yes--for an hour," said falloden hoarsely. then he added--"the doctors say he ought to go south.". "of course he ought!" connie was pacing up and down, her hands behind her, her eyes on the ground. "can't mr. sorell take him?" "he could take him out, but he couldn't stay. the college can't spare him. he feels his first duty is to the college?" "and you?" she raised her eyes timidly. "what good should i be alone?" he said, with difficulty. "i'm a pretty sort of a nurse!" there was a pause. connie trembled and flushed. then she moved forward, both her little hands outstretched. "take me with you!" she murmured under her breath. but her eyes said more--far more. the next moment she was in falloden's arms, strained against his breast--everything else lost and forgotten, as their lips met, in the just selfishness of passion. then he released her, stepping back from her, his strong face quivering. "i was a mean wretch to let you do that!" he said, with energy. she eyed him. "why?" "because i have no right to let you give yourself to me--throw yourself away on me--just because we have been doing this thing together,--because you are sorry for otto--and"--his voice dropped--"perhaps for me." "oh!" it was a cry of protest. coming nearer she put her two hands lightly on his shoulders--. "do you think"--he saw her breath fluttering--"do you think i should let any one--any one--kiss me--like that! just because i was sorry for them--or for some one else?" he stood motionless beneath her touch. "you are sorry for me--you angel!--and you're sorry for otto--and you want to make up to everybody--and make everybody happy--and--" "and one can't!" said connie quietly, her eyes bright with tears. "don't i know that? i repeat"--her colour was very bright--"but perhaps you won't believe, that--that"--then she laughed--"_of my own free will_, i never kissed anybody before?" "constance!" he threw his strong arms round her again. but she slipped out of them. "am i believed?" the tone was peremptory. falloden stooped, lifted her hand and kissed it humbly. "you know you ought to marry a duke!" he said, trying to laugh, but with a swelling throat. "thank you--i never saw a duke yet i wanted to marry." "that's it. you've seen so little. i am a pauper, and you might marry anybody. it's taking an unfair advantage. don't you see--what--" "what my aunts will think?" asked constance coolly. "oh, yes, i've considered all that." she walked away, and came back, a little pale and grave. she sat down on the arm of a chair and looked up at him. "i see. you are as proud as ever." that hurt him. his face changed. "you can't really think that," he said, with difficulty. "yes, yes, you are!" she said, wildly, covering her eyes a moment with her hands. "it's just the same as it was in the spring--only different--i told you then--" "that i was a bully and a cad!" her hands dropped sharply. "i didn't!" she protested. but she coloured brightly as she spoke, remembering certain remarks of nora's. "i thought--yes i did think--you cared too much about being rich--and a great swell--and all that. but so did i!" she sprang up. "what right had i to talk? when i think how i patronised and looked down upon everybody!" "you!" his tone was pure scorn. "you couldn't do such a thing if you tried for a week of sundays." "oh, couldn't i? i did. oxford seemed to me just a dear, stupid old place--out of the world,--a kind of museum--where nobody mattered. silly, wasn't it?--childish?" she drew back her head fiercely, as though she defied him to excuse her. "i was just amusing myself with it--and with otto--and with you. and that night, at magdalen, all the time i was dancing with otto, i was aiming--abominably--at you! i wanted to provoke you--to pay you back--oh, not for otto's sake--not at all!--but just because--i had asked you something--and you had refused. that was what stung me so. and do you suppose i should have cared twopence, unless--" her voice died away. her fingers began fidgeting with the arm of the chair, her eyes bent upon them. he looked at her a moment irresolute, his face working. then he said huskily-- "in return--for that--i'll tell you--i must tell you the real truth about myself. i don't think you know me yet--and i don't know myself. i've got a great brutal force in me somewhere--that wants to brush everything--that hinders me--or checks me--out of my path. i don't know that i can control it--that i can make a woman happy. it's an awful risk for you. look at that poor fellow!" he flung out his hand towards that distant room whence came every now and then a fresh wave of music. "i didn't intend to do him any bodily harm--" "of course not! it was an accident!" cried connie passionately. "perhaps--strictly. but i did mean somehow to crush him--to make it precious hot for him--just because he'd got in my way. my will was like a steel spring in a machine--that had been let go. suppose i felt like that again, towards--" "towards me?" connie opened her eyes very wide, puckering her pretty brow. "towards some one--or something--you care for. we are certain to disagree about heaps of things." "of course we are. quite certain!" "i tell you again"--said falloden, speaking with a strong simplicity and sincerity that was all the time undoing the impression he honestly desired to make--"it's a big risk for you--a temperament like mine--and you ought to think it over seriously. and then"--he paused abruptly in front of her, his hands in his pockets--"why should you--you're so young!--start life with any burden on you? why should you? it's preposterous! i must look after otto all his life." "so must i!" said connie quickly. "that's the same for both of us." "and then--you may forget it--but i can't. i repeat--i'm a pauper. i've lost flood. i've lost everything that i could once have given you. i've got about four thousand pounds left--just enough to start me at the bar--when i've paid for the orpheus. and i can't take a farthing from my mother or the other children. i should be just living upon you. how do i know that i shall get on at the bar?" connie smiled; but her lips trembled. "do think it over," he implored; and he walked away from her again, as though to leave her free. there was a silence. he turned anxiously to look at her. "i seem"--said connie, in a low voice that shook--"to have kissed somebody--for nothing." that was the last stroke. he came back to her, and knelt beside her, murmuring inarticulate things. with a sigh of relief, connie subsided upon his shoulder, conscious through all her emotion of the dear strangeness of the man's coat against her cheek. but presently, she drew herself away, and looked him in the eyes, while her own swam. "i love you"--she said deliberately--"because--well, first because i love you!--that's the only good reason, isn't it; and then, because you're so sorry. and i'm sorry too. we've both got to make up--we're going to make up all we can." her sweet face darkened. "oh, douglas, it'll take the two of us--and even then we can't do it! but we'll help each other." and stooping she kissed him gently, lingeringly, on the brow. it was a kiss of consecration. * * * * * a few minutes more, and then, with the eighth prelude swaying and dancing round them, they went hand in hand down the long approach to the music-room. the door was open, and they saw the persons inside. otto and sorell were walking up and down smoking cigarettes. the boy was radiant, transformed. all look of weakness had disappeared; he held himself erect; his shock of red-gold hair blazed in the firelight, and his eyes laughed, as he listened silently, playing with his cigarette. sorell evidently was thinking only of him; but he too wore a look of quiet pleasure. only mrs. mulholland sat watchful, her face turned towards the open door. it wore an expression which was partly excitement, partly doubt. her snow-white hair above her very black eyes, and her frowning, intent look, gave her the air of an old sibyl watching at the cave's mouth. but when she saw the two--the young man and the girl--coming towards her, hand in hand, she first peered at them intently, and then, as she rose, all the gravity of her face broke up in laughter. "hope for the best, you foolish old woman!" she said to herself--"'male and female made he them!'--world without end--amen!" "well?" she moved towards them, as they entered the room; holding out her hands with a merry, significant gesture. otto and sorell turned. connie--crimson--threw herself on mrs. mulholland's neck and kissed her. falloden stood behind her, thinking of a number of things to say, and unable to say any of them. the last soft notes of the prelude ceased. it was for connie to save the situation. with a gentle, gliding step, she went across to otto, who had gone very white again. "dear otto, you told me i should marry douglas, and i'm going to. that's one to you. but i won't marry him--and he agrees--unless you'll promise to come to algiers with us a month from now. you'll lend him to us, won't you?"--she turned pleadingly to sorell--"we'll take such care of him. douglas--you may be surprised!--is going to read law at biskra!" otto sank into a chair. the radiance had gone. he looked very frail and ghostly. but he took connie's outstretched hand. "i wish you joy," he said, stumbling painfully over the words. "i do wish you joy!--with all my heart." falloden approached him. otto looked up wistfully. their eyes met, and for a moment the two men were conscious only of each other. mrs. mulholland moved away, smiling, but with a sob in her throat. "it's like all life," she thought--"love and death, side by side." and she remembered that comparison by a son of oxford, of each moment, as it passes, to a watershed "whence equally the seas of life and death are fed." but connie was determined to carry things off with a laugh. she sat down beside otto, looking businesslike. "douglas and i"--the name came out quite pat--"have been discussing how long it really takes to get married." mrs. mulholland laughed. "mrs. hooper has been enjoying alice's trousseau so much, you needn't expect she'll let you get through yours in a hurry." "it's going to be my trousseau, not aunt ellen's," said connie with decision. "let me see. it's now nearly christmas. didn't we say the th of january?" she looked lightly at falloden. "somewhere near it," said falloden, his smile at last answering hers. "we shall want a fortnight, i suppose, to get used to each other," said connie coolly. "then"--she laid a hand on mrs. mulholland's knee--"you bring him to marseilles to meet us?" "certainly--at your orders." connie looked at otto. "dear otto?" the soft tone pleaded. he started painfully. "you're awfully good to me. but how can i come to be a burden on you?" "but i shall go too," said mrs. mulholland firmly. connie exclaimed in triumph. "we four--to front the desert!--while he"--she nodded towards sorell--"is showing nora and uncle ewen rome. you mayn't know it"--she addressed sorell--"but on monday, january th--i think i've got the date right--you and they go on a picnic to hadrian's villa. the weather's arranged for--and the carriage is ordered." she looked at him askance; but her colour had risen. so had his. he looked down on her while mrs. mulholland and falloden were both talking fast to otto. "you little witch!" said sorell in a low voice--"what are you after now?" connie laughed in his face. "you'll go--you'll see!" * * * * * the little dinner which followed was turned into a betrothal feast. champagne was brought in, and otto, madly gay, boasted of his forebears and the incomparable greatness of poland as usual. nobody minded. after dinner the magic toy in the studio discoursed brahms and schumann, in the intervals of discussing plans and chattering over maps. but connie insisted on an early departure. "my guardian will have to sleep upon it--and there's really no time to lose." every one took care not to see too much of the parting between her and falloden. then she and mrs. mulholland were put into their carriage. but sorell preferred to walk home, and falloden went back to otto. sorell descended the hill towards oxford. the storm was dying away, and the now waning moon, which had shone so brilliantly over the frozen floods a day or two before, was venturing out again among the scudding clouds. the lights in christ church hall were out, but the beautiful city shone vaguely luminous under the night. sorell's mind was full of mingled emotion--as torn and jagged as the clouds rushing overhead. the talk and laughter in the cottage came back to him. how hollow and vain it sounded in the spiritual ear! what could ever make up to that poor boy, who could have no more, at the most, than a year or two to live, for the spilt wine of his life?--the rifled treasure of his genius? and was it not true to say that his loss had made the profit of the two lovers--of whom one had been the author of it? when palloden and constance believed themselves to be absorbed in otto, were they not really playing the great game of sex like any ordinary pair? it was the question that otto himself had asked--that any cynic must have asked. but sorell's tender humanity passed beyond it. the injury done, indeed, was beyond repair. but the mysterious impulse which had brought falloden to the help of otto was as real in its sphere as the anguish and the pain; aye, for the philosophic spirit, more real than they, and fraught with a healing and disciplining power that none could measure. sorell admitted--half reluctantly--the changes in life and character which had flowed from it. he was even ready to say that the man who had proved capable of feeling it, in spite of all past appearances, was "not far from the kingdom of god." oxford drew nearer and nearer. tom tower loomed before him. its great bell rang out. and suddenly, as if he could repress it no longer, there ran through scroll's mind--his half melancholy mind, unaccustomed to the claims of personal happiness--the vision that connie had so sharply evoked; of a girl's brown eyes, and honest look--the look of a child to be cherished, of a woman to be loved. was it that morning that he had helped nora to translate a few lines of the "antigone"? "love, all conquering love, that nestles in the fair cheeks of a maiden--" it is perhaps not surprising that sorell, on this occasion, after he had entered the high, should have taken the wrong turn to st. cyprian's, and wakened up to find himself passing through the turl, when he ought to have been in radcliffe square.